TO    MY    MOTHER. 


UNIV.  Of  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


Merze  #**##*#*# 

*  *  *  The  Story  of  an  Actress 
By  *  *  *  *   Marah  Ellis  Ryan 


Chicago  and  New  York  *  *  * 

Rand,  McNally  &  Company 
*************** 


Copyright,  1888,  by  Rand,  McNally  &  Co.,  Chicago. 


MERZE: 

THE  STORY  OF  AN  ACTRESS. 


PROLOGUE. 

"And  you  can't  possibly  stay  more  than  one  day, 
Drande  ?" 

"  Not  very  well,  considering  that  even  this  lay-over 
will  cost  me  extra  work.  I  should  be  in  St.  Louis 
to-day,  but  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  pay  a 
flying  visit  when  I  was  so  near." 

"  Father  will  be  disappointed  because  your  visit  is  not 
longer." 

"  And  my  creditors  will  be  disappointed  if  it  be.  We 
can't  all  live  on  the  fat  of  the  land,  Glenn,  as  you  folks 
do  at  the  Homestead — at  least,  not  without  paying  for 
it.  I  am  still  paying  for  fat  that  fell  into  the  fire  five 
years  ago." 

The  tone  was  rueful,  but  the  smile  in  the  dark  eyes 
disclaimed  all  serious  scorchings  from  the  flames.  The 
two  rode  on,  single  file,  along  the  bridle-path — a  near 
cut  across  the  hill — one  belonging  to  the  range  that 
glides  along  the  south  shore  of  the  Ohio  River  and 

(5) 


2132350 


MERZE  ' 


reaches  back  into  the  interior  of  Kentucky.  Sud- 
denly the  boy,  who  was  ahead,  turned  in  his  saddle  and 
said  : 

"You  remember,  Drande,  your  last  visit — and  the 
tragedy  ?" 

"  I  have  cause  to,  as  it  kept  me  here  several  days  after 
I  should  have  been  gone." 

"  Oh,  that's  so  !  I  left  for  school  that  day.  I  only 
know  of  it  by  hearsay.  This  path  leads  us  in  sight 
of  the  house.  See  ?  You  can  get  a  view  of  it  from 
here." 

"Yes,"  assented  the  other,  reining  in  his  horse  and 
gazing  across  the  little  valley  to  where  a  log  house 
stood  on  a  little  plateau  of  meadow,  back  of  which 
the  hills  rose  dark  and  shadowy.  It  had  a  deserted, 
forlorn  look  ;  cattle  browsed  around  the  door  and  stood 
in  the  cool  water  of  the  spring,  placidly  chewing  their 
cud,  as  if  knowing  there  was  none  to  say  them  nay. 

"  Is  it  empty  ?"  asked  the  older  man,  looking  at  the 
house  with  interest. 

"  Empty  ?  yes  ;  father  can't  get  a  tenant  in  it  for  love 
or  money,  and  none  of  the  darkies  will  work  alone  at 
this  end  of  the  place.  They  vow  that  Mignot  and  that 
dead  unknown  walk  on  dark  nights  along  that  path 
through  the  clearing.  I  doubt  if  any  of  them  have 
ever  ventured  near  it  on  a  dark  night  to  prove  or  dis- 
prove the  spectral  tale.  Father  intends  turning  the  old 
house  into  a  shed  for  the  young  cattle  that  graze  over 
here.  It  does  look  dreary,  doesn't  it  ?" 
"  Rather,"  answered  the  other,  laconically. 
"  Not  as  much  as  it  did  a  year  ago— a  little  over  a 
year  since  it  happened,  isn't  it  ?  Then  Jack's  whistl- 
ing or  swearing  and  the  dog's  barking  kept  it  noisy 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  7 

if  not  cheery,  to  say  nothing  of  the  girl,  who  was  a  host 
in  herself." 

"  Have  you  seen  her  since  ?"  The  tone  was  carelessly 
questioning,  but  not  so  the  eyes,  had  the  youth  noticed 
them.  Whoever  had  been  the  occupants  of  the  deserted 
house,  they  were  not  entirely  without  interest  for  this 
stranger.  "  Seen  her  ?"  repeated  Glenn  ;  "  can  we  see 
last  year's  tiger  lilies  ?  I  suppose  roses  or  snow  is  a 
more  poetic  comparison,  but  tiger  lilies  seemed  to  suit 
Merze  best.  No,  we  have  seen  no  more  of  her  than  if 
the  earth  had  opened  and  buried  her  under  the  plateau. 
And  do  you  know,"  he  continued,  half-jesting,  half  in 
earnest,  "nothing  would  surprise  me  concerning  that 
girl — not  even  the  possession  of  a  familiar  spirit  that 
could  cart  her  away  unseen  to  another  world — I  fear  it 
would  have  been  the  lower  one." 

•'  Yes ;  she  was  a  strange  child,"  said  the  man, 
musingly,  gazing  across  at  the  cows  flicking  off  the 
flies  and  crowding  close  under  the  shade  of  the  trees. 
"  A  very  peculiar  character,  with  material  in  it  for  much 
good  or  much  evil." 

Glenn  turned  as  if  in  surprise  at  the  words  : 

"  Why,  Drande  !  did  you  know  her  ?" 

The  other  straightened  up  in  the  saddle  and  touched 
his  horse  as  if  to  shake  off  his  musings  by  motion. 

"  Know  her  ?  Well,  hardly.  I  saw  her  once  before, 
and  then  on  the  morning  after,  the  shooting.  But,  if  you 
remember,  you  gave  me  some  information  as  to  the  beauty 
of  her  character." 

The  young  fellow  laughed,  as  he  cut  with  his  whip 
at  the  chestnut  leaves  brushing  in  their  faces  as  they 
passed. 

"  The  beauty  was  not  often  discernible,  for  even  at  her 


S  MERZE : 

best  there  was  something  approaching  '  uncanniness ' 
about  her  ;  she  was  so  unlike  all  other  girls.  Those  big 
eyes  of  hers  would  look  at  you,  or  through  you,  as  solemn 
as  an  owl's  ;  hungry-looking  eyes — the  sort  one  would 
rather  see  in  daylight  with  the  sun  shining.  Poor  little 
imp  !  I  think  she  found  life  a  pretty  rough  affair  with 
Jack." 

"You  seem  to  have  been  much  interested  in  her," 
said  the  other,  banteringly  ;  but  Glenn  did  not  notice  it. 

"One  could  not  help  it  if  they  knew  her  well.  She 
had  so  many  ambitions  far  beyond  anything  that  was 
ever  likely  to  come  to  her.  Where  she  got  them  was  a 
mystery  !  I  think  she  would  have  sold  her  soul — if  she 
had  known  she  possessed  such  a  thing — for  books  or 
knowledge.  Do  you  know,  Drande,"  he  continued,  slack- 
ening up  his  horse  as  the  path  verged  into  the  road 
where  they  could  ride  abreast,  "  do  you  know  that  girl  of 
fifteen  had  never  remembered  seeing  a  Bible  in  her  home, 
or  had  never  been  taught  anything  whatever  of  any 
religion  ?  Her  only  ideas  of  a  Deity  were  gathered 
from  Jack's  oaths  and  a  dilapidated  copy  of  Homer's 
Iliad  that  she  had  got  among  some  ragman's  wares. 
The  gods  of  the  Greeks  were  as  well  known  to  her  as 
Jack  and  the  dogs,  but  of  the  Christian  Deity  or  the 
saints  she  was  as  ignorant  as  I  am  of  Choctaw — a  verit- 
able heathen,  despite  the  knowledge  she  had  managed  to 
pick  up  in  other  things." 

"A  devotee  of  the  Greek  gods  in  this  Nineteenth 
Century  and  in  the  Kentucky  hills  must  surely  have 
been  an  oddity,"  and  the  man  smiled  at  the  idea. 

"  Oh,  as  for  a  devotee — I  don't  say  that,"  expostulated 
Glenn;  "  only  she  knew  nothing  else.  Her  mother  had 
come  of  a  family  where  religious  observances  were  en- 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  9 

forced  to  such  a  degree  as  to  make  them  hateful  to  her. 
She  did  not  seem  a  bad  woman— not  entirely  so  at 
least ;  but  she  simply  detested  all  mention  of  the  subject. 
And  as  for  Jack — well,  you  may  know  from  hearsay  how 
much  of  a  religious  training  a  child  would  get  through 
him." 

"A  strange  life  for  a  child,"  commented  the  other, 
"  and  one  that  raises  theories  in  the  mind  as  to  what  sort 
of  a  woman  such  childhood  would  lead  to." 

"I  could  not  imagine  it  leading  to  a  commonplace 
one." 

"  The  commonplace  lives  have  most  content,  my  boy; 
but  time  tells  all  things,  though  it  is  not  likely  to  tell  us 
in  this  case,  since  she  has  been  spirited  out  of  our  ken 
by  jealous  friends,  relatives,  or,  as  you  say,  familiar 
spirits.  Well,  the  blessing  of  her  gods  go  with  her  !" 
The  speaker  touched  his  horse  into  a  canter,  and  they 
sped  down  along  the  country  road,  cool  and  shadowy 
from  the  timber  on  either  side,  while  here  and  there, 
through  the  break  of  a  clearing,  they  could  see  the  hills 
far  to  the  south  like  green  billows  fading  away  into 
the  haze  of  blue.  They  did  not  refer  again  to  the 
tragedy  of  the  log  house,  whatever  it  was,  or  to  the 
girl  whom  Glenn  had  compared  to  the  tiger  lilies.  But, 
though  the  dark-eyed  handsome  man  of  the  world  had 
a  cause  of  interest  unknown  to  the  boy,  no  foreshadow- 
ing of  fate  brought  to  him  the  knowledge  of  how  closely 
his  threads  of  life  were  to  be  interwoven  with  those  of 
the  child  they  mentioned — the  young  pagan  of  the 
Kentucky  hills. 


10  MER2E : 


CHAPTER  I. 

One  year  previous  to  the  conversation  given  between 
the  horsemen  of  the  bridle  path,  the  blue  smoke  was 
curling  lazily  from  the  cross-stick  chimney  of  the  log 
house  on  the  grassy  plateau — an  ordinary  building  con- 
sisting of  two  rooms  down  stairs  and  one  up.  The  large 
room  down  stairs  was  used  as  parlor,  kitchen,  dining- 
room,  and  library  ;  for,  beside  the  shelves  on  which  the 
household  crockery  was  displayed,  another  one  held 
a  few  books — worn  they  were  and  tattered,  showing 
that  they  had  been  used  by  someone  who  did  not  keep 
them  for  ornaments. 

The  floor  was  bare,  with  the  exception  of  a  woven 
strip  of  rag  carpet  at  one  door  and  a  brilliant-hued 
Turkish  rug  at  the  other.  The  same  odd  house-furnish- 
ing was  shown  in  everything  ;  a  lounge  was  manufac- 
tured out  of  drygoods  boxes  and  covered  with  a  piece 
of  heavy  old  brocaded  stuff  which  had  evidently  once 
been  a  curtain,  as  the  companion  to  it  was  tacked  as  a 
screen  to  the  doorway  leading  into  a  small  back  room. 
Some  rough  wooden  chairs  were  scattered  about  the 
room,  while  in  the  centre  was  a  large  table  of  polished 
dark  wood  with  handsomely-carved  legs.  It  was  with- 
out cover,  but  on  one  end  was  set  a  luncheon  of  bread 
and  some  cold  meat.  The  fire  was  low  on  the  hearth  of 
the  wide  open  fireplace,  and  a  man,  entering  the  open 
door,  glanced  toward  it,  muttering  an  imprecation  ; 
then,  looking  at  the  curtained  door,  he  said  sharply  : 
"Merze!"  Receiving  no  answer,  he  called  again,  this 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  11 

time  from  the  open  doorway  leading  to  the  yard.  Still 
no  sound  came  to  him  save  the  hum  of  insects  in  the 
grasses,  or  the  call  of  the  cattle  to  one  another  down  in 
the  meadows  ;  not  a  sign  or  sound  of  humanity  broke 
the  quiet  of  the  late  afternoon.  Then  a  whistle,  sharp, 
loud,  and  clear,  broke  from  his  lips,  and,  as  it  died  away, 
a  voice  answered  : 

"  All  right ;  I'm  coming,"  and  a  girl  rose  quickly 
from  where  she  had  lain  in  the  long  grass  under  the 
shade  trees  of  the  old  spring-house,  and  ran  swiftly  up 
the  irregular  stone  steps  that  led  to  above  the  spring. 
In  one  hand  she  carried  a  fine  dark-braided  hat,  some- 
what the  worse  for  wear  ;  in  the  other  a  book  and  some 
pieces  of  brown  paper  on  which  she  had  evidently  been 
writing. 

"  Hurry  up  here  !  it's  a  strange  thing  you  can  never 
be  in  the  house  when  you  are  wanted,"  called  the  man, 
impatiently. 

The  girl's  speed  slackened.  A  sullen  look  swept  over 
her  face  and  made  it  almost  ugly.  She  stopped  and 
deliberately  put  on  her  hat,  tying  the  strings  with  much 
care.  Then,  picking  up  the  book  she  had  carefully  laid 
down  in  order  to  arrange  her  toilet,  she  proceeded  leis- 
urely to  the  house,  as  if  unaware  of  the  angry  eyes 
watching  her  from  the  doorway. 

The  owner  of  the  house  muttered  an  oath,  and  seemed 
as  if  about  to  call  again>  but,  instead  of  that,  he  turned 
and  threw  himself  on  the  lounge  with  a  half  smile.  He 
lo'oked  at  her  questioningly  as  she  entered,  not  quite 
sure  what  phase  of  character  might  unfold  itself  for  his 
benefit.  The  girl  looked  at  him  precisely  as  she  would 
have  looked  at  the  lounge  if  he  had  not  been  there.  An 
amused  gleam  crept  into  his  eyes  as  they  followed  her 


12  MER2E : 

moving  about  the  table,  fixing  the  fire,  bringing  in  chips, 
and  making  the  coffee.  When  all  was  done  she  filled  a 
delicately-painted  cup,  the  handle  of  which  was  broken, 
and  then  announced  : 

"  Your  supper  is  ready." 

"  Well,  you  needn't  snap  out  your  words  like  that,  as 
if  the  coffee  was  a  cup  of  poison  you  were  glad  to  pour 
out  for  me.  What's  the  matter  with  you  ? " 

"  Nothing,"  shortly  answered  the  girl,  who  sat  with  her 
book,  pencil,  and  brown  paper  on  the  door-step. 

"  Come,  now,  don't  be  cross." 

"You  wanted  to  make  me  cross,  or  you  would  not 
have  called  me  when  you  saw  I  was  coming  as  fast  as  I 
could." 

"Well,  you  didn't  injure  yourself  hurrying  after  I  did 
call." 

"You  knew  I  wouldn't." 

"  I  might  have  known  it,  with  your  stubborn,  ugly 
temper.  I'll  bet  there  isn't  a  girl  in  the  county  like  you." 

"  There  isn't  a  girl  in  sixteen  counties  that's  had  to 
live  like  I  have,"  she  said,  a  little  bitterly. 

The  man  did  not  answer,  but  a  half-sad,  half-irritated 
look  swept  over  his  dark  face  as  he  glanced  at  the  girl 
and  held  out  his  cup. 

"Pour  me  some  more  coffee,  Merze,"  and  as  he  came 
over  to  the  table  he  put  his  arm  about  the  slight  waist. 
"  So  you  are  not  satisfied  with  the  way  you  live,  eh  ?  And 
yet  I'm  not  such  a  bad  father  after  all.  I've  never  been 
bad  to  you." 

"I  wouldn't  let  you.  I'd  run  away.  I'd  go  to  ma's 
folks." 

"  I  believe  you  would  ;  but  you  will  never  need  to, 
Merze.  Just  wait  till  our  luck  turns,  then  you'll  agree 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  13 

you  were  level-headed  in  sticking  to  me  instead  of  that 
lot.  We'll  leave  these  hills  and  live  in  grand  style  when 
I  get  on  my  feet  again.  What  do  you  say  to  that  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  answered  the  girl,  turning  away.  These 
promises  and  plans  were  old  tales  to  her. 

"  Nothing  ?" 

"  Nothing,  except  that  I  wouldn't  drink  any  more  of 
that  new  whiskey  of  Hazen's.  It  goes  to  your  head." 

"  Don't  meddle  with  what  don't  concern  you,  you  im- 
pudent chit,"  growled  the  man,  glaring  at  her  across  the 
table. 

"  You  would  like  to  throw  that  cup  at  my  head, 
wouldn't  you  ?"  asked  the  girl,  with  an  exasperatingly 
pleasant  smile  on  her  face.  "But  you'd  better  not; 
if  it's  broke  you'll  have  to  drink  out  of  a  tin  one." 

He  set  down  the  cup  with  a  laugh. 

"  Wouldn't  you  let  me  use  yours  ?" 

"  No,  I  wouldn't.  You're  too  mean  to — Oh,  dada,  I 
forgot !  I  made  something  for  your  dinner,  and  you 
never  came  home  for  it;  look  here  !"  and  she  unrolled  a 
cloth  from  about  a  very  dubious-looking  brown  lump 
like  a  loaf,  and  laid  it  on  the  table  with  an  air  of  satisfac- 
tion. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  eyeing  it  suspiciously. 

"It's  a  cake!"  she  announced,  proudly,  "a  pound- 
cake, I  think." 

"  Yes,  it  looks  as  if  it  might  be.  How  did  you  come 
to  do  it  ?" 

"  I  asked  Mrs.  Cassell,  the  housekeeper  at  the  Home- 
stead, how  she  made  cake,  and  to-day  I  tried  it.  It's 
good  and  sweet,  anyway.  Have  some  ?" 

"  Yes.  I'll  swallow  it  if  it  kills  me,  and  we'll  bury 
the  hatchet  under  layers  of  your  pound-cake — and  it 


14  MERZE : 

looks  heavy  enough  to  bury  anything  under,  with  a  small 
chance  of  a  resurrection." 

This  bit  of  sarcasm  was  lost  on  Merze,  who  forgot 
to  be  suspicious  in  her  enjoyment  of  seeing  him  swallow 
some  of  the  dark  mass.  She  stood  watching  him  eat  it, 
which  he  did  heroically,  knowing  her  eyes  were  on  him, 
and  knowing  if  he  did  not  appear  to  enjoy  it  he  was  likely 
not  to  have  anything  cooked  for  him  for  a  full  week. 

An  odd  couple  these  two  were  :  as  odd  as  the  furnish- 
ing of  their  house.  One  could  tell  at  a  glance  that  they 
were  father  and  daughter,  though  to  hear  five  minutes' 
conversation  between  them  the  listener  would  be  apt  to 
doubt  it.  The  man  was  dark  and  rather  handsome  in  a 
gypsy  sort  of  fashion.  His  face  was  neither  very  good 
nor  very  bad,  but  the  kind  that  might  be  seen  in  either 
a  tramp  sent  to  the  workhouse  for  worthlessness,  or  in 
the  mayor  who  condemns  him — a  man  whose  position  in 
life  depends  almost  entirely  on  circumstances  and  very 
little  on  his  own  will.  There  was  boldness  in  the  keen, 
dark  eyes,  but  not  strength  of  character ;  and  Merze, 
young  as  she  was,  had  learned  that,  and  many  were  the 
altercations  between  them  in  which  her  respect  for  his 
opinion  was  not  always  apparent;  but  they  generally  ended 
good  naturedly  enough,  and  Merze  could  tramp  through 
the  woods  with  him  more  like  a  boy  would  than  a 
girl. 

And  this  had  been  the  girl's  home  life — not  a  good 
one  for  a  girl  to  live,  for  no  amount  of  careful  school 
training  can  eradicate  from  a  child's  mind  the  impressions 
received  through  family  relations,  and  no  amount  of 
teaching  or  sermons  on  duty  could  ever  make  Merze 
feel  differently  toward  her  father. 

Her  mother  had  married  him  for  his  handsome  face 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  15 

and  dashing  manners,  and  had  been  disowned  by  her 
family  in  consequence.  Little  by  little  the  enamel  wore 
off,  until  the  clay  in  her  idol  shone  through  ;  but  she  was 
one  of  those  patient,  long-suffering  women  to  whom  the 
thought  of  breaking  her  bonds  never  came.  We  do  see 
such  sometimes.  In  her  mind  he  was  still  associated 
with  the  lover  of  her  earlier  imagination,  and  no  amount 
of  experience  could  ever  quite  dispel  that  glamour  and 
reveal  him  to  her  in  the  same  light  in  which  the  young 
eyes  of  Merze  saw  him  and  knew  him. 

And  when  she  had  died,  a  year  before  the  opening  of 
this  story,  it  was  with  the  conviction  that  it  was  no  fault 
of  his  that  he  had  gradually  lowered  both  himself  and 
her  to  the  depths  from  which  she  would  have  shrunk  in 
horror  at  the  beginning  of  their  united  lives.  But  habit 
and  association  have  proved  chains  strong  enough  to 
clog  the  sensitive  instincts  of  stronger  natures  than  hers 
had  been. 

At  her  death  the  grandfather  of  Merze  had  written, 
offering  to  adopt  and  educate  her  child.  The  letter,  a 
cold,  condescending  epistle,  with  a  contempt  for  her 
father  showing  through  every  line,  was  given  by  him  to 
Merze  to  read. 

"  There,  child,  read  that ;  they  have  money,  and  will 
make  a  lady  of  you,  and  the  prospects  are  small  for  me 
doing  it.  You  are  almost  fourteen,  and  have  sense  ahead 
of  your  years.  See  what  they  offer,  and  choose  for  your- 
self." 

He  said  this  carelessly,  handing  her  the  letter  with  a 
hand  that  trembled.  He  had  never  known  before  how 
much  the  girl  was  to  him. 

Her  eyes  shone  with  eagerness  as  she  read.  It  was  not 
the  thought  of  fine  ladyhood  that  made  her  long  for  what 


16  MERZE : 

the  letter  offered,  but  that  of  an  education— a  chance  of 
school  with  no  fear  of  being  taken  from  it  with  every 
change  in  her  father's  fortune.  The  expression  of  her 
face  showed  him  her  thoughts,  and  his  own  grew  white 
as  he  said  :  "  You  will  go  ?" 

His  voice  broke  in  on  her  dreams.  She  noted  the  pain 
underlying  his  matter-of-fact  words,  and,  with  a  rush  of 
memory,  came  her  mother's  last  request  to  her  : 

"  Try  to  be  kind  to  dada,  Merze.  Do  what  you  can  to 
make  him  happy,  for  he  has  only  you,  now,  in  all  the 
world."  Thus  she  thought  of  her  poor,  pale  little 
mother,  who  had  loved  them  both  so  much.  She  wanted 
the  books — yes — but — 

"  I  will  stay  here,"  she  said,  giving  back  the  letter. 

"  Merze  !  Merze  !  You  mean  it  ?"  he  asked,  with  a 
sound  like  a  sob  in  his  strong,  brown  throat. 

"Of  course  I  mean  it." 

"  And,  by  heavens,  you  shan't  regret  it !  You  shall 
see,  Merze.  I'll  get  out  of  this  rut,  and  then  you  shall 
have  the  things  they  offer  you.  I  will  do  so  much " 

"  There,  dada,  don't  make  rash  promises,  for  you  always 
break  them.  Don't  say  anything  more  to  me  about  it- 
only  tell  them  I  won't  go."  And,  calling  the  dogs,  she 
ran  a  merry  race  with  them  until  she  reached  her  favorite 
nook  by  the  trees  at  the  spring,  and  then,  when  out  of 
sight  of  the  house,  she  flung  herself  among  the  grasses 
in  a  passion  of  sobs  that  shuddered  through  all  her  slight 
frame. 

The  dogs,  surprised  at  this  new  departure  of  their 
playmate,  were  at  first  inclined  to  think  it  some  trick  for 
their  amusement,  and  ran  romping  over  her;  but,  seeing 
her  lie  unheeding  all  their  endeavors  at  playfulness, 
they  ceased,  and  stood  about  gazing  at  her  with  soft,  wide 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  17 

eyes  of  wonder.  One,  a  particular  pet  of  hers,  a  glossy- 
coated,  velvet-eared  setter,  came  over  and,  scratching 
softly  at  her  dress,  put  his  nose  down  by  her  neck  and 
stood  quite  still.  Receiving  no  notice  from  her,  he  lay 
flat  on  the  ground,  with  both  paws  on  her  arm,  and  ever 
and  anon  gave  her  a  gentle  push  as  if  to  remind  her  of 
his  presence. 

"  Don't,  Max  !"  she  said,  chokingly  ;  but,  feeling  him 
still  there,  she  raised  her  head  and  met  the  sad,  wise 
eyes  with  a  devotion  in  them  seldom  seen  in  the  eyes  of 
a  human  ;  and  then  she  drew  the  brown  head  close  to  her 
own,  and  sobbed  out  her  sorrows  to  her  mute  friend. 

"  Oh,  Max  !  Max  !  Will  it  ever  be  different  ?  Will 
the  learning  and  the  books  ever  come  ?  Will  anyone  ever 
understand  ?" 

Max  crawled  close,  offering  his  sympathy  in  a  pitying, 
dumb  manner,  as  if  knowing  and  understanding  that 
words  were  of  no  avail  here.  Max  was  as  old,  almost,  as 
Merze  herself,  and  had,  perhaps,  seen  other  hearts  cry 
out  in  loveless  loneliness.  Dogs  hear  so  much  and  see 
so  many  sorrows  in  the  people  about  them  of  which  hus- 
band and  wife,  parent  and  child,  do  not  dream.  "  Only 
a  dog,"  we  say,  and  let  it  lie  in  our  rooms  unheeded. 
And,  when  our  friends  are  gone  and  there  are  no  human 
eyes  near  from  which  to  hide  our  thoughts,  our  loves, 
our  hopes,  our  despair,  then  we  take  out  the  treasured 
likeness  of  a  face  we  love,  the  scribbled  note  whose 
writer's  name  is  always  first  in  our  hearts  but  seldom 
on  our  lips — dead  leaves  that  drift  from  the  past  and 
bring  the  flowers  of  the  present.  And  over  them  all,  how 
many  tried  souls  have  moaned  :  "  How  long  !  how  long  !" 
And  a  few  hours  later,  when  we  go  out  among  those 
about  us,  laughing  and  jesting,  we  see  the  sad,  ques- 
2 


18  MERZE : 

tioning  eyes  of  our  dog  watching  us,  and  never  think 
that  he  may  be  asking  mutely  :  "  Which  is  yourself  :  the 
tired  soul  that  prayed  for  release  last  night,  or  the  care- 
less devotee  of  society  to-day?" 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  week  after  our  introduction  to  the  log  cabin  and  its 
curious  occupants,  one  of  them,  accompanied  by  Max, 
made  her  way  along  the  shady  path  through  the  woods 
and  across  lots  to  the  Homestead,  as  it  was  called,  where 
lived  Mr.  Halbert,  the  gentleman  for  whom  her  father 
worked,  taking  care  of  the  horses,  or  seeing  that  the 
stablemen  did  it,  for  his  knowledge  of  horse-breeding 
and  training  made  him  a  valuable  man  to  the  landowner 
and  connoisseur  in  racing  stock. 

There  were  many  days  on  which  Jack  Mignot  found 
himself  unable  to  get  around  to  the  stables,  and  this 
happened  to  be  one  of  them,  and  Merze,  as  usual,  was 
sent  with  directions  to  the  hostlers.  She  walked  past  the 
house  and  through  the  yard  toward  the  stables  with  the 
air  of  one  who  is  familiar  with  her  surroundings. 

"  Hen !"  she  called  in  through  the  open  door  of  the 
granery. 

"Yes,  miss,"  and  a  black  figure  emerged  with  a 
wooden  pail  of  oats  in  his  hand. 

"He  can't  come  this  morning,  and  you're  to  take 
Starlight  out  yourself,  and  not  let  Jim  do  it,  and  have 
new  boxes  made  for  Whitefoot's  stall,  and  don't  let  the 
carriage  horses  go  out  without  having  that  shoe  tight- 
ened on  the  one  he  spoke  to  you  about,  and  turn  the 
young  stock  out  in  the  lower  pasture." 


THE    STORY    OF   AN    ACTRESS.  19 

"Yes,  miss.     Is  that  all  ?" 

"  That's  all,  and — and  you'll  see  it's  all  done,  Hen,  so 
that  Mr.  Halbert  won't  miss  him  being  away  ?" 

"  Bless  your  heart,  honey — yes  ;  you  trust  Hen  to  'tend 
to  it ;  I  understand." 

A  red  wave  passed  over  the  girl's  face  at  the  darkey's 
well-meaning  words,  under  which  she  detected  a  shade 
of  pity  she  could  not  resent. 

"  Thank  you,  Hen,"  she  said,  turning  away. 

"Blest  if  I  wouldn't  tell  lies  hand  over  fist  sooner 
than  have  that  little  girl  fretted  fear  he'd  be  discharged," 
muttered  Hen  to  the  peck  measure  as  he  turned  into  the 
granery. 

As  Merze  passed  the  stable  a  cheery  voice  called  : 
"  Good-morning,  Merze,"  and  looking  up  she  saw  a  boy- 
ish face  smiling  down  at  her  from  the  hay-mow. 

"  Good-morning,  sir,"  she  said,  not  stopping. 

"Here — wait,  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  What's  the 
hurry  ?"  and  the  figure  of  a  young  fellow  of  perhaps 
eighteen  leaped  lightly  to  the  ground  and  in  a  moment 
was  beside  her.  "  Where  have  you  been  ?  I  haven't 
seen  you  for  a  week." 

"At  home,  minding  my  own  business,"  answered  the 
girl,  shortly,  walking  so  rapidly  that  he  was  compelled 
to  hurry  to  keep  pace  with  her. 

"  Which  is  not  a  very  elegant  intimation  that  I  am  to 
mind  mine,"  he  added,  not  at  all  crushed  by  this  chilling 
reply.  "  Say,  are  you  training  for  a  foot-race  ?  If  not, 
you  might  as  well  slack  up  a  little,  for  I  shan't  let  you 
walkaway  from  me  until  I'm  through  talking  to  you,  for 
I  go  back  to  school  to-day.  There,  that's  better.  Now, 
tell  me  why  you  didn't  come  for  the  book  you  wanted  so 
much." 


20  MERZE  : 

The  girl  walked  on  in  silence. 

"Well?"  he  inquired. 

"  I  changed  my  mind,"  she  said,  with  her  eyes  on  the 
ground. 

"  Oh,  have  you  ?  Well,  that  alters  things.  So  my 
getting  it  is  of  no  use  after  all,  for  I  don't  lean  towards 
Grecian  history  myself." 

"  Oh,  Glenn  !  did  you  get  it  ?"  the  girl  broke  out, 
eagerly. 

He  looked  at  her,  marking  the  longing  in  her  eyes. 

"So  you  did  not  change  your  mind  ?  I  thought  not. 
Now  tell  me  why  you  neglected  coming  for  the  book 
when  you  wanted  it  so  much." 

"  I  won't,"  she  said,  sullenly. 

"  Oh,  all  right !  but  don't  look  sulky  about  it;  and  here 
is  your  treasure,"  he  said,  handing  her  a  neatly-bound 
copy  of  Grecian  mythology,  which  she  took  eagerly. 

"You  are  so  good,"  she  uttered,  in  an  ecstatic  tremor 
of  gratitude  and  excitement.  "  I  wanted  it  so  long — a 
real  whole  new  one  !  I  am  so  glad,  and  he  shan't  laugh 
at  me  this  time.  I'll  hide  it." 

"  So  !  someone  laughed  at  you  ?    Who  was  it  ?" 

"  Dada." 

"  And  what  at  ?" 

"  Me,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  never  go  near  your 
house  again  " — in  her  gladness  she  had  forgotten  her 
resolve  not  to  tell  him — "  for  when  I  told  him  you  loaned 
me  books  and  taught  me  some  things  in  them  he — 
he—" 

"Well,  what  did  he  say  ?" 

"  Nothing." 

"What?" 

"But— he  laughed." 


THE   STORY    OP   AN    ACTRESS.  21 

The  girl  hesitated  over  the  statement,  as  if  there  had 
been  something  very  annoying  to  her  in  her  father's 
laugh.  But  the  boy  did  not  notice  that;  he  only  thought 
what  a  sulky  vixen  she  was  to  deny  herself  the  book 
through  ill-temper  with  her  father,  and  laughed  at  her, 
too,  boyishly — carelessly. 

"  What  a  calamity  !  He  dared  to  laugh  at  you  ?  We'll 
have  him  drawn  and  quartered  straightway.  Oh  !  what 
a  life  you  must  lead  him.  By  the  way,  where  is  the 
jovial  Jack  ?  Why  did  he  not  come  over  himself  ?" 

She  hesitated,  her  face  flushing  ;  she  looked  at  him, 
and  saw  an  amused  smile  on  his  face.  That  settled  it. 
She  set  her  teeth  determinedly  and  lied  heroically, 

"  He's  sick." 

"  Poor  man  !"  this  with  just  a  trifle  more  sympathy 
than  was  required,  Merze  thought.  "  Are  you  sure  he 
isn't  drunk?" 

She  stopped,  her  eyes  filled  with  angry  tears. 

"  You  think  it  is  very  funny,  don't  you  ?"  she  asked, 
bitterly.  "  I  wonder  if  you  would  see  the  funny  side  of 
it  if  you  were  in  my  place  ?  I've  had  fine  clothes  and 
money  like  you,  but  I  never  wore  them  and  laughed  at 
people  who  were  wretched.  You  only  talk  to  me  so  you 
can  laugh  and  make  fun  of  me,  and  I  hate  you,  Glenn 
Halbert !"  And,  dashing  the  coveted  Grecian  mytho- 
logy within  an  inch  of  his  nose,  she  sped  across  the  road 
and  into  the  woods  toward  her  home,  while  he  stood 
stupidly  staring  after  her. 

"  Now,  I  wonder  what  I  said  to  bring  out  so  much 
temper.  Everybody  knows  Jack  drinks,  and  she  knows 
they  do.  So  I  can't  see — well,  I  think  I  will  give  up 
trying  to  educate  the  natives,"  and,  picking  up  the  book, 
he  was  turning  toward  the  house  when  a  man  called 


22  MERZE  : 

out  from  the  edge  of  the  woods :  "  Good-morning, 
Glenn." 

"  Hello,  Drande,  out  so  early  ?    What  did  you  get?" 

"  Nothing,"  answered  the  other,  crossing  the  road,  his 
gun  on  his  shoulder;  "  not  a  thing  did  I  see  except  chip- 
munks and  a  wild-looking  girl  who  ran  into  me  back 
there,  nearly  upsetting  me.  Do  you  know  her  ?" 

"  To  my  sorrow  ;  she  just  left  me  in  a  rage  at  a  trifle — 
an  awful  temper — flung  that  book  at  my  head  and  ran." 

"  Grecian  mythology !  What  on  earth  was  a  wild- 
looking  thing  of  that  sort  doing  with  a  copy  of  this  ?" 

"  Oh,  she's  a  sort  of  an  oddity  with  a  smattering  of  all 
sorts  of  knowledge,  and  a  father  who  is  a  good  match 
for  her.  He  looks  after  the  stables  when  he  happens  to 
be  sober.  If  it  wasn't  that  he  knows  Starlight  so  well, 
and  is  training  her  for  the  fall  races,  father  would  dis- 
charge him,  though  it  would  be  hard  on  the  girl  if  he 
did,  and  she's  good-hearted  though  she  has  a  temper," 
added  the  boy. 

He  walked  back  toward  the  house  with  his  companion, 
a  man  whom  he  was  no  more  like  than  the  slim,  straight 
fruit  tree  with  a  hint  of  its  first  blossoms  is  like  one  in 
its  prime  that  has  been  kissed  by  the  sun  and  rocked  by 
the  winds  until  the  branches  bear  leaves  on  which  the 
frosts  of  autumn  are  beginning  to  paint  the  emblems  of 
a  life  that  has  lived  every  hour  of  its  existence.  A  de- 
cidedly handsome  face,  with  full  dark  eyes  in  which 
there  was  a  glint  of  latent  mockery;  a  square  chin,  ex- 
pressive mouth,  and  a  length  of  upper  lip  under  the  dark 
moustache  showing  enough  strength  of  will  to  balance 
the  easy,  cynical  good  nature  of  his  Bohemian  counten- 
ance. A  man  of  perhaps  thirty-five,  with  that  indescrib- 
able something  which  speaks  to  the  most  ignorant  of  the 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  23 

man  of  culture,  and  of  the  sort  that  is  not  gained  so 
much  from  books  as  from  contact  with  the  people  of 
many  climes. 

A  rolling  stone  may  gather  no  moss,  but  it  certainly 
acquires  a  polish — such  a  polish  as  made  itself  manifest 
to  those  meeting  this  man  whom  Glenn  had  called 
"  Drande." 


CHAPTER  III. 

On  through  the  woods  went  Merze,  with  angry  tears 
in  her  eyes  blurring  the  path  at  times,  and  turning  all 
the  summer  landscape  into  a  confused  mass  of  blue  and 
green. 

"  I  will  never  go  there  again — never  !  He  only  laughs 
at  me  because  my  clothes  are  ragged  and  we  are  poor. 
I — I  hate  him,  yes,  I  do  !"  she  muttered  between  decided 
snivels.  "  I  guess  my  eyes  are  too  red  to  go  home  ;  if 
dada  thought  anyone  had  made  me  cry  he'd  want  to  go 
up  and  whip  them  all  until  he  found  the  right  one.  Guess 
I'll  lay  down  here  in  the  shade  until  I  quit  making  a  fool 
of  myself.  I  don't  believe  I've  got  much  sense  anyway; 
and  now  I  don't  suppose  I'll  ever  get  that  book  again, 
and  I  wanted  it  so  bad — oh,  dear!"  and  the  tears  were 
very  near  the  surface  again,  but  she  kept  them  back 
heroically,  and  settled  herself  in  a  grassy  hollow  made 
by  the  upheaved  roots  of  a  storm-leveled  chestnut. 

"  Dada  will  swear  if  I'm  not  back  to  get  his  dinner," 
she  thought,  scratching  together  some  leaves  for  a  pil- 
low. "  Well,  let  him — wish  I  had  a  book  to  read,"  but 
that  thought  brought  back  the  Grecian  mythology  to  her 
mind.  That  way  lay  madness  in  the  shape  of  red  eyes, 


24  MERZE  : 

so  Merze  avoided  it.  "  Let  him  swear.  I  won't  go  back 
till  evening.  Wonder  who  that  man  was  I  bumped  into 
back  there  ?  He  looked  like  a  picture  we  had  in  a  book 
of  poems — King  Arthur  of  the  Round  Table.  I  wonder 
if  Glenn  knows  him  ?  I  wish  there  were  fairies  here  ; 
old  Mike  in  Natchez  used  to  swear  there  were  in  Ire- 
land— wish  I  could  get  some  bad  ones  to  do  something 
to  Glenn  Halbert,  something  real  wicked,  'cause  I  hate 
him — I  hate — "  and  the  tawny  head  slipped  heavily  off 
her  arm  onto  the  pillow  of  dry  leaves,  and  Merze  was 
sound  asleep  with  disjointed  mutterings  of  hate  and 
Glenn  Halbert  on  her  lips. 

The  night  before  that  had  been  almost  sleepless  for 
her.  Morning  was  fast  approaching  when  Jack  had 
stumbled  into  the  cabin,  drunk,  and  had  dropped  down 
on  the  covered  boxes  unconscious  of  two  tired  eyes 
watching  him  from  behind  the  curtain  of  the  little  bed- 
room. 

"  Did  I  waken  you  coming  in  last  night  ?"  he  asked  in 
the  morning.  "  It  must  have  been  late — almost  eleven." 

"  I  suppose  I  was  sleeping  too  sound,"  she  answered, 
with  a  contempt  for  him  filling  her  mind.  She  had  not 
slept  at  all  until  he  came — an  hour  before  dawn. 

And  so,  tired  and  tearful,  sleep  came  to  her  quickly 
laying  there  among  the  grass  and  leaves,  and  the  birds 
twittered  about  her,  and  the  grey  squirrels  peered  at  her 
from  shady  nooks,  and  the  sun  reached  its  highest  point 
in  the  heavens  and  began  slowly  descending  when  she 
moved  restlessly  and  stretched  out  her  hand,  touching 
something  soft  and  warm. 

"  Max,"  she  murmured  sleepily,  "  good  Max  !"  and 
raising  her  head  she  met  the  friendly  gaze  of  Max,  and 
beyond  Max  she  encountered  another  pair  of  eyes — not 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  25 

the  dog's,  but  eyes  with  a  gleam  of  quizzical  wonder 
in  them,  belonging  to  the  face  which  she  thought 
looked  like  King  Arthur's.  Beside  him  was  a  portable 
easel  and  a  box  with  paints  and  brushes  in  it,  showing 
that  he  had  been  making  use  of  them. 

Merze  lay  still  in  the  little  hollow  looking  at  him. 
"  Well  ?"  she  said  at  last,  as  he  sat  there  looking  at  her 
but  saying  nothing. 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  sending  rings  of  smoke  from  a 
queer  Turkish-looking  pipe. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?"  she  asked,  superciliously, 
as  if  the  estate  was  her  own  special  property.  • 

"  May  it  please  your  highness,  I  am  a  poor  vagabond 
stealing  a  few  sketches  from  your  domain,"  he  answered, 
meekly,  wondering  if  she  would  understand  his  words. 

"Are  you  an  artist — really?"  she  asked,  doubtfully, 
crawling  from  her  leafy  couch. 

"Well,"  he  answered,  "some  people  say  I  am  not,  but 
I  attribute  that,  of  course,  to  jealousy.  You  know — or 
you  may  not  know,  but  it  is  a  fact — that  envy  always 
sends  her  shafts  at  a  brilliant  mark,  and  I,  alas  !  am  too 
often  the  butt  of  her  malice  ;  but  genius  will  not  be 
crushed,  so  I  live  on  to  brighten  with  my  gifts  a  thank- 
less world." 

Merze  stopped  in  her  work  of  picking  the  leaves  from 
her  hair,  and  looked  at  him  with  questioning,  displeased 
eyes. 

"  Are  you  drunk  ?"  she  asked,  bluntly. 

Her  words,  and  the  fearless  way  in  which  they  were 
spoken,  made  the  man  laugh — a  low,  pleasant,  mellow 
laugh  that  reassured  her,  for  she  laughed  with  him. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  half  crossly,  "  how  was  I  to  know  ? 
You  talked  as  if  you  were  either  drunk  or  else  hadn't 


26  MERZE : 

real  good  sense,  and  some  way  you  look  as  if  you  ought 
to  have  sense,  so  I  just  thought  you  were  drunk." 

"  A  very  natural  conclusion,  my  young  philosopher ; 
your  breadth  of  vision  is  only  equaled  by  the  delicacy 
with  which  you  veil  your  compliments.  Come  and  look 
at  my  work.  I  was  at  least  not  too  tipsy  to  get  a  very 
decent  copy  of  your  face." 

She  looked  at  the  sketch  he  turned  toward  her,  a  pic- 
ture fair  enough  to  please  the  vanity  of  any  female  in 
which  that  trait  is  supposed  to  be  paramount,  and  this  is 
what  she  saw  :  A  background  of  green  foilage  with  the 
sun  warm  against  it.  An  overturned  tree  lying  there  so 
long  that  the  gigantic  roots  had  been  washed  by  the 
rains  and  burned  by  the  sun  until  all  soil  had  disap- 
peared, and  their  blackened  lengths,  reaching  high  in 
air,  looked  like  the  arms  of  an  immense  devil-fish  ;  and, 
curled  at  its  base  beneath  its  grotesque  shadow,  she  saw 
herself — but  it  was  herself  idealized,  made  more  fair. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  the  eyes  were  closed  that  she 
looked  so  childish — her  eyes  were  always  too  old  for  her 
face.  Her  tawny  hair  shone  like  a  halo  against  the  brown 
leaves  of  her  pillow.  A  loose  sacque,  evidently  made  by 
her  own  unskilled  fingers  out  of  red  merino,  was  around 
her  slight  figure,  and  was  the  one  thing  needed  to 
brighten  the  foreground  of  the  sketch.  Very  roughly  it 
had  been  done,  and  very  much  there  was  still  to  do  at  it. 
Only  on  the  face  had  he  worked  carefully  as  possible  in 
the  time  given  him,  and  like  a  star  it  shone  in  its  sombre 
setting  of  dead  leaves. 

He  watched  the  girl  with  curiosity  in  his  eyes.  What 
did  he  expect  her  to  do  or  say — admire  her  own  like- 
ness in  woman  fashion  ?  If  so,  he  was  disappointed. 
She  looked  at  it  earnestly,  but  said  nothing. 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  2? 

"  Well  ?"  he  said,  a  little  impatiently. 

"  Oh  !"  she  breathed,  more  to  herself  than  to  him;  "  if 
I  could  only  do  so  well  !'' 

He  took  the  pipe  from  his  lips  as  he  glanced  at  her 
face,  and  saw  in  it  such  a  longing — such  a  starved  look 
in  the  wide  eyes — that  for  a  moment  he  was  startled  out 
of  his  laziness. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  want  to  learn  to  paint  ?" 

She  sat  still,  looking  at  the  sketch,  her  hands  clasped 
tightly  over  her  knee. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  a  little  weakly — a  little 
irritably.  "  Just  to  be  able  to  do  something  in  the  world 
that  is  really  worth  doing.  Sometimes  I  try  to  keep  my- 
self from  thinking  of  it,  and  once  I  thought  I'd  quit 
trying  to  learn  when  there  was  no  chance  of  me  ever 
going  to  school  again.  It's  awful  to  know  just  a  little, 
and  be  sure  you'll  never  have  a  chance  to  learn  any 
more  ;  so  I  took  my  books  and  buried  them  down  in  the 
ground,  and  tried  to  lose  the  place,  but  I  couldn't.  I 
went  back  in  the  night  for  them  ;  I  couldn't  sleep.  Dada 
says  I'm  a  fool  about  them,  but  I  can't  help  it,  and  that 
picture  brings  it  all  back  more  than  ever." 

"  Brings  what  back  ?"  he  asked.  She  was  such  a  curi- 
ous creature,  with  her  earnest  face  a  little  sulky — or 
was  it  only  hopeless  dissatisfaction  with  herself  ?  At  any 
rate,  she  was  a  curious  type,  and  rather  an  interesting 
one  to  the  lazy-looking  sketcher.  Her  words  seemed 
strange  to  him,  coming  from  the  lips  of  a  child.  "  Brings 
what  back  ?"  he  repeated,  as  she  sat  silent. 

"  Ah  !"  she  burst  out,  "  everything  :  the  want  of  books 
and  the  learning  to  understand  them  ;  real  pictures  like 
that ;  and  words  to  tell  of  all  the  beautiful  things  I  see 
and  hear  in  the  woods  and  fields — things  that  people  who 


28  MERZE : 

are  clever  write  such  poems  of.  How  can  I  tell  you  all 
it  brings  back  or  how  lonesome  it  makes  me  ?  You'll 
think,  as  it  is,  that  I  am  a  fool.  Dada  says  I  am.  Some- 
times I  wonder  if  I  am  quite  like  other  folks  !"  She  said 
this  so  earnestly — even  wistfully — that  the  man  had  no 
thought  of  laughing  at  the  odd  speech. 

"And  what  conclusion  do  you  reach  as  to  your 
sanity  ?" 

She  laughed  a  little  at  the  question. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "  I  only  know  if  I 
could  do  work  as  great  as  that  I  would  never  feel  lonely 
again — not  if  I  never  saw  the  face  of  a  living  thing. 
Just  to  do  any  work  so  well  I  would  be  content." 

The  man  smiled  a  little  sadly  on  the  young  enthusiast, 
and  replied  : 

"You  think  so  now,  child,"  turning  the  picture  where  her 
eyes  could  no  longer  rest  on  it ;  "but  you  would  know 
better  in  time.  It  never  yet  has  contented  humanity, 
especially  when  the  human  thing  has  a  woman's  heart 
filled  with  longings  such  as  yours — for  knowledge,  the 
secrets  of  art,  the  speech  of  a  poet  ;  and  you  would  want 
these  to  yourself,with  only  the  forests — no  human  hearts 
— to  share  it  with  :  that  would  mean  selfishness,  and  it  is 
not  to  such  lives  that  God  grants  the  things  you  long 
for." 

His  voice  was  no  longer  light  or  careless — his  eyes  no 
longer  mocking.  To  the  girl  he  seemed  more  like  her 
pictured  King  Arthur  than  ever.  No  one  had  ever  spoken 
to  her  of  it  before.  Even  her  mother  had  scolded  a  little, 
weakly,  at  what  she  called  silly  vagaries ;  only  this 
stranger  seemed  to  understand  and  did  not  laugh. 

"I  wish,"  she  said,  impulsively,  "that  you  were  always 
here.  Just  to  hear  you  talk  would  teach  me  so  much.  I 


THE  STORY   OF   AN   ACTRESS.  29 

can't  give  you  anything  in  return,  but  I  could  show  you 
every  pretty  spot  in  the  woods  for  your  pictures." 

"  I  would  be  glad  to  see  them,  though  it  is  too  late 
now,  as  I  leave  in  the  morning  for  the  East.  But  are  you 
aware  that,  despite  our  lengthy  conversation,  we  are 
ignorant  of  each  other's  names  ?" 

"  Mine  is  '  Merze,'  "  she  answered,  promptly. 

"  '  Merze  !'  But  that  is  a  nickname  ;  what  is  your  real 
name  ?" 

"  Just  l  Merze — Merze  Mignot';  I  never  had  any  other. 
Dada  used  to  have  a  dog  by  that  name ;  he  says  he 
called  me  for  it,  but  I  don't  know  if  it's  true.  Ma 
wanted  me  called  after  some  of  her  folks,  and  I  guess 
he  just  called  me  after  the  dog  to  be  contrary." 

She  told  him  as  unconcernedly  as  if  it  was  an  every- 
day occurrence  to  find  names  for  children  in  that  way. 
She  did  not  in  the  least  understand  how  strange  it 
sounded  to  her  listener.  The  dogs  had  always  been  her 
best  friends  ;  she  would  quite  as  soon  be  named  for 
them  as  any  of  the  people  she  knew.  But  her  words  of 
explanation  were  as  a  history  to  the  man,  and  the  state- 
ment, "  He  just  called  me  for  the  dog,  to  be  contrary," 
told  of  family  contentions  that  were  not  trifling. 

"Poor  devil!"  the  man  muttered  under  his  breath; 
and  then  aloud,  "  well,  Merze,  how  is  it  that  you  are  so 
dissatisfied  with  your  life  ?  It  seems  to  suit  the  other 
people  whom  I  see  here." 

"The  other  people  !"  He  could  not  but  smile  at  her 
tone.  "Where  are  the  other  girls  brought  up  as  I  have 
been  ?  how  could  I  be  the  same  ?" 

"  You  forget,  child,  I  haven't  known  you  an  hour, 
and  am  ignorant  of  your  manner  of  bringing  up." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  can  soon  tell  you,"  offered  Merze,  com- 


30  MERZE : 

posedly.  "  I've  been  carted  all  over  the  country,  wherever 
dada  happened  to  go  looking  for  a  streak  of  luck. 
Sometimes  he  would  find  it,  and  then  we  had  every- 
thing ;  but  it  never  lasted  long.  He  put  me  to  school 
two  or  three  times,  but  he  was  sure  to  strike  bad  luck. 
That  would  settle  it ;  so  I  only  got  a  little  taste  of  learn- 
ing when  they'd  take  me  away,  and  maybe  give  up  a 
nice  place  for  a  flatboat  on  which  we  would  float  down 
to  New  Orleans  ;  and  sometimes  we  had  to  sell  even  my 
books.  I  never  minded  about  the  furniture,  or  clothes, 
and  such  things.  It  used  to  worry  mama  ;  but  all  I 
cared  for  was  when  the  books  had  to  go.  I've  gathered 
up  a  few  now,  but  all  they  teach  me  only  makes  me 
want  more  ;  and  now  I  don't  expect  ever  to  get  any 
more  chance  to  learn.  Things  have  been  pretty  bad 
with  us  since  mama  died  a  year  ago.  I  wonder  why 
people  were  ever  put  into  this  world  when  there  don't 
seem  to  be  any  room  or  any  chance  for  them  ?" 

"  Don't  despair ;  you  are  young  enough  yet  to  begin 
your  education.  Something  may  send  a  chance  of  it  in 
your  way." 

"  I  am  fifteen,  and  the  chance  seems  a  long  time  in 
coming.  I  don't  think  it  strange  that  I  am  not  like 
other  people  here — people  who  have  good,  quiet  homes, 
and  have  always  known  at  night  that  they  were  sure  of 
a  breakfast  in  the  morning.  And  as  for  a  chance  of 
school — when  I  can't  buy  shoes,  how  am  I  to  buy 
books  ?"  and  she  laughed  a  little  bitterly  as  she  thrust 
out  a  torn  shoe  that  had  evidently  been  repaired  by  her 
own  hands.  Instinctively  the  man  put  his  hand  in  his 
pocket.  The  girl  saw  it,  and,  rising,  continued  : 

"But  I  never  begged.     Come,  Max." 

The  man  sprang  to  his  feet.      "  Stop  !"  he  said,   put- 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  31 

ting  his  hand  out.  "  Stop  one  moment.  I  beg  your 
pardon,  child.  Surely  you  know  I  would  not  offer  you 
money  as  to  a  beggar  !" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  girl  resentfully  ; 
"  perhaps  you  are  like  the  rest  after  all.  They  think 
all  people  ever  want  is  money.  It's  good  enough  for 
me,  too,  for  I  had  no  business  talking  to  you  so.  It  is 
more  than  I  have  ever  told  even  the  people  I've  known 
longest.  I  was  a  fool.  You  looked  kind  and  strong,  like 
an  engraving  we  had  of  King  Arthur.  I  went  to  sleep 
there  and  dreamed  of  you,  and  when  I  woke  and  saw 
you  it  almost  seemed  as  if  I  knew  you  before,  and  so  I 
talked — and  perhaps  you  laughed  ! — how  do  I  know?" 

Her  voice  had  been  gradually  rising,  until  it  had 
reached  a  pitch  several  degrees  above  an  ordinary  con- 
versational tone.  "  And  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  you 
— or  that,"  with  an  unconsciously  dramatic  gesture 
toward  the  poor  picture.  "  I  hope  I  never  will  again. 
You  and  your  work  make  me  hate  everything  about  my- 
self ;  and  you  think  me  nothing  more  than  a  beggar  in 
spite  of  the  kind  things  you  said  ;  and  I  hate  you  for  it 
— yes  I  do — I  hate  you  !"  She  looked  such  a  young  fury 
that  the  man  stared  at  her  in  amazement.  The  dog 
seemed  to  know  her  humors,  for  he  crawled  close  to  her 
feet  and  whined  a  little,  low  and  pleadingly. 

The  man  looked  at  her,  shaking  his  head  chidingly. 
"  Child,  child,"  he  said,  sadly,  "  if  you  have  your  own 
faults  so  little  under  control,  you  have  cause  to  be  thank- 
ful for  anything  that  makes  you  dissatisfied  with  your 
own  nature.  Come,  sit  here  ;  I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

The  girl  did  so  with  drooping  head  and  eyes  on  the 
ground.  She  was  thoroughly  ashamed  of  her  temper, 
and  half  awed  by  his  tone. 


32  MERZE : 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  he  continued.  "  You  said 
just  now  it  would  teach  you  much  if  I  could  talk  to 
you  often.  I  may  never  have  the  chance  of  talking  to 
you  again,  but  I  want  to  tell  you  some  things  which  you 
must  try  and  remember  for  your  own  good.  You  are 
ambitious,  in  a  vague  way,  to  do  something  which  will 
be  thought  great.  You  see  that  sketch,  and  by  con- 
trast with  your  own  work  and  surroundings  you  think 
it  is  so,  and  you  long  for  such  accomplishments  ;  but  you 
will  learn  some  day  your  mistake.  That  may  be  clev- 
erly done — barely  that — a  thing  to  pass  pleasant  hours 
with,  but  not  a  thing  that  will  leave  behind  the  con- 
sciousness of  good  work  well  done.  So,  child,  that  is 
not  a  thing  to  grieve  over  for  not  knowing." 

"But  it  is  beautiful,"  she  said,  "and  I  can  not  do  any- 
thing." 

"  But  there  is  that  in  your  nature,  if  you  strive  to  im- 
prove it,  that  will  bring  more  content  to  your  future 
than  such  superficial  accomplishments." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  asked,  eagerly  ;  "  is  it  anything  that 
may  be  great  ?" 

"  Great,  great  ?"  he  repeated,  looking  at  the  question- 
ing, eager  eyes  ;  "  you  think  only  of  something  that 
might  be  thought  great.  There  is  something  which  in 
woman  is  more  honor  than  greatness." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  asked  again. 

"It  is  goodness,"  he  answered;  and,  watching  her 
face,  he  saw  the  expectation  die  out  of  it,  leaving  only 
disappointment. 

"  Goodness,  oh  !"  she  said  ambiguously  ;  "  there  are  lots 
of  people  that." 

"And  so  you  do  not  care  to  be,"  he  added  ;  "as  I 
feared,your  longings  are  only  for  the  tinsel  which  you  hope 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  33 

the  world  may  mistake  for  gold.  Ah  !  that  is  but  a 
paltry  ambition.  The  world  is  full  of  such;  it  is  a  waste 
of  words  to  talk  of  it,"  and  he  rose  with  almost  a  dis- 
appointed look  in  his  eyes. 

She  rose,  too,  and  looked  at  him  while  he  gathered 
up  his  paints  and  brushes';  which  done,  he  turned  to 
her,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said  kindly.  "I  am  sorry  to  have 
added  to  your  troubles  by  my  presence  and  my  work  ; 
but  I  will  not  again.  I  leave  to-morrow."  She  laid 
her  hand  in  his,  but  did  not  speak.  "  Good-bye,"  he  re- 
peated. 

She  tried  to  speak,  hesitated,  and  then  burst  out :  "  I 
am  sorry — I  did  not  mean  it  that  way — I  will  try  to  be 
good,  or  whatever  you  say,  if  only  you  don't  go  away 
angry." 

He  dropped  the  brushes  and  took  both  her  hands 
in  his. 

"  I  am  not  angry  with  you,  child  ;  don't  think  that ; 
a  little  disappointed,  perhaps  ;  but  your  heart  is  all  right, 
though  you  must  try  to  be  good  for  the  sake  of  good- 
ness, not  to  please  another." 

"  No  one  has  ever  cared  but  you,"  she  answered  ;  "no 
one  ever  tried  to  teach  me  how,  and  I  guess  folks  don't 
just  grow  good.  But  I  will  try  if  you  will  only  teach 
me  what  you  mean." 

"  I  only  mean  that  you  must  place  the  word  '  good  ' 
instead  of  the  word  '  great '  first  in  your  heart,  and  it  will 
bring  you  no  regrets  with  your  womanhood.  You  are 
dreaming  your  days  away  in  air-castles  while  you  neg- 
lect the  one  thing  that  is  really  yours — a  tiny  garden 
in  which  you  allow  the  weeds  to  grow  until  they  grow 
so  tall  and  so  strong  that  your  fingers  will  soon  be  too 


34  MERZE : 

weak  to  break  them.  And  low  down  in  the  dusk  at  their 
roots  shine  little  white  stars  that  one  sees  seldom  for  the 
waving,  flourishing  arms  of  the  weeds  above.  They  are 
the  snowdrops  of  pure  thoughts,  unselfish  desires,  and 
consciousness  of  duties  well  done." 

"  Tell  me  what  to  do,"  said  Merze,  her  hands  still  in 
his.  They  had  been  so  earnest,  he  in  speaking,  she  in 
listening,  that  they  had  forgotten. 

"  Curb  your  temper  ;  endeavor  to  do  always  what  duty 
brings  to  you,  if  you  would  make  good  use  of  your  life. 
Your  home  does  not  seem  pleasant  to  you — are  you 
always  pleasant  to  it?  Strive  for  the  snowdrops 
always ;  dig  out  the  first  green  shafts  of  the  weeds. 
If  you  try  faithfully  to  conquer  and  improve  your 
nature,  and  prove  that  you  have  an  earnest  desire 
for  knowledge,  and  not  the  vanity  that  longs  for  super- 
ficial accomplishments,  it  may  be  that  sometime  I  could 
help  your  father  in  the  matter  of  your  education.  I  can, 
at  any  rate,  send  you  such  school  books  as  you  need  for 
the  present,  and  for  the  future  will  hope  for  the  best." 

"  I  will  study  and  try  so  hard,"  she  promised  ;  "and 
you  will  come  back  sometime  soon  ?" 

"  I  cannot  promise  that ;  but  you  shall  have  your 
books,  and  then,  if  you  are  earnest  as  you  say,  we 
will  see  what  can  be  done  about  the  school." 

"  Are  you  rich  ?"  she  asked  bluntly. 

"  No,  far  from  it ;  but  I  might  manage  to  get  the 
money  loaned  until  your  father  could  pay  it  back  in 
part.  But  I  will  see  him  and  talk  to  him  about  it." 

"  No,  you  won't !"  said  Merze,  decidedly  ;  "  so  that  set- 
tles that.  He  won't  pay  anything  back  unless  it's  to 
someone  he  wants  to  borrow  from  again.  He'd  say 
he'd  pay  you,  of  course  ;  but  he  never  would  do  it  in  the 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  35 

world.  If  you  were  rich  enough  to  wait  until  I  could 
learn  how  to  earn  the  money,  I  could  pay  it ;  but  as  you 
ain't,  why  we  can't,  that's  all.  And  I  won't  think  of  it, 
and  then  I  won't  be  disappointed.  But  it  is  good  of  you 
to  say  you  would  try.  Nobody  was  ever  so  kind  to  me 
before,  or  seemed  to  care  whether  I  was  good  or  bad. 
Mama  was  always  good  enough,  but  she  wasn't  strongly 
good — not  enough,  you  know,  to  help  make  other 
people  good.  But  I'll  try  to  be  so  now,  because  you 
care.  Why  do  you  care  ?" 

"Why  did  you  tell  me  more  of  your  life  than  you 
would  tell  others  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  laughingly  ;  "  it  does 
seem  funny,  don't  it  ?  I  guess  it  was  because  I  dreamed 
of  you,  and  it  almost  seemed  as  if  I  had  known  you. 
But  it  is  sundown,  and  I  must  go  home.  Dada  will 
swear  as  it  is,  for  I  haven't  been  home  since  morning. 
Won't  I  see  you  again  before  you  go  away  ?"  she  asked, 
as  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  answered,  smiling.  "  Who  can  tell  what 
a  day  may  bring  forth  ?" 

"  I  wish  it  would  bring  a  streak  of  good  luck,  so  we 
could  get  out  of  this  place." 

"  And  if  you  should  go  before  I  return — if  I  should 
not  see  you  again — you  will  remember  the  things  I  told 
you,  and  you  will  not  forget  the  snowdrops  ?" 

His  tone  was  half  jesting,  half  serious,  but  there  was 
no  answering  smile  in  the  girl's  eyes. 

"  You  will  see  that  I  don't  forget,"  she  said  earnestly. 

A  step  was  heard  in  the  woods  above  them,  and  a 
voice  called  :  "  Hello  there  !" 

They  looked  up  ;  a  man  had  stopped  a  few  rods  off 
and  was  looking  at  them. 


36  MERZE : 

"  Well  ?"  answered  Merze's  companion,  "  what  is 
wanted  ?" 

"I  want  to  find  Jack  Mignot's  house.  Can  you 
direct  me  ?" 

"I'll  show  you,"  said  Merze.  "I'm  going  there." 
Then  she  turned  to  her  new-found  friend.  "  I  must  go 
now,  sure.  I  don't  know  who  it  is,  but  it's  lucky  he 
came,  or  I'd  have  stayed  until  dark.  Good-bye  once 
more.  Come,  Max,"  and  then  she  joined  the  new-comer. 
"  Come  along,"  she  said,  brusquely,  and  in  a  minute 
more  they  had  passed  out  of  sight  of  the  man  standing 
by  the  overturned  chestnut.  He  picked  up  his  paint- 
ing outfit  and  the  picture,  and  turned  in  the  opposite 
direction. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said,  as  he  plunged  through  the  woods, 
"  whether  I  have  done  a  more  foolish  thing  than  usual 
this  afternoon.  But  the  girl's  eyes  had  such  a  look  of 
starvation  in  their  depths,  and  I  always  was  a  fool  over  a 
pair  of  wistful  eyes — bigger  fool  I!  What  business  have 
I  with  such  a  vagabond's  welfare  ? — I  who  saddle  myself 
with  the  responsibility  of  a  girl's  education,  a  stray  of 
very  erratic  propensities,  a  bundle  of  contradictions  such 
as  is  only  encased  in  the  form  divine.  According  to  the 
almanac,  I  was  thirty-two  my  last  birthday,  but  from 
my  action  I  am  tempted  to  believe  that  my  second  child- 
hood is  fast  approaching.  Well,  fools  will  learn  in  no 
school  save  experience.'1 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  37 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Merze  walked  on  silently  beside  the  stranger.  She 
was  thinking,  thinking  over  the  words  so  lately  spoken 
to  her — words  such  as  no  other  had  ever  used  to  her — 
words  that  had  filled  all  her  mind  with  a  desire  to  be 
what  the  speaker  wished  her.  She  wondered  vaguely 
how  he  understood  her  wants  and  needs  and  the  evil  that 
was  always  uppermost  in  her  own  nature. 

Her  companion  looked  at  her  curiously.  Once  or 
twice  he  spoke  to  her,  but  she  answered  briefly.  At  any 
other  time  she  would  have  welcomed  anyone  to  talk  to, 
especially  a  man  like  this,  who  was  very  different  from 
the  generality  of  Jack's  callers — a  man  well  dressed, 
and  with  the  air  of  a  gentleman  ;  small  hands,  on  one  of 
which  shone  a  ring,  an  opal  surrounded  by  diamonds  ; 
blue  eyes  with  a  keen  glint  in  them,  the  keenness  of 
steel  and  the  coldness  ;  light-brown  hair,  and  a  fair, 
rather  florid  face,  with  a  foreshadowing  in  it  of  future 
obesity — a  handsome  face,  he  had  heard  it  called  often, 
so  often  that  he  carried  the  consciousness  of  it  in  his 
manner  as  he  strolled  along  the  wood  path  with  a  rather 
jaunty  air. 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  taking  you  out  of  your  way,"  he 
remarked  ;  "  if  so,  direct  me  and  I  will  try  and  find  it 
alone." 

"  No,  you  are  not,"  she  answered.  "  I  am  going  home 
anyway.  I  live  there." 

"  You  do  ?    Then  you  must  be  Jack's  girl." 


38  MERZE  : 

"Yes,  I  am  Jack's  girl." 

"  Let  me  see,  I  ought  to  remember  your  name;  '  Mercy ' 
is  it  not  ?  But  when  I  saw  you  last,  you  were  a  little 
mite,  and  you  are  almost  a  lady  now." 

"  A  lady  !"  Merze  said,  glancing  down  at  the  old  shoes, 
and  then  up  into  his  face  to  see  if  he  were  mocking  her. 
But  she  saw  nothing  to  corroborate  her  suspicion,  as  he 
looked  all  right,  though  she  felt  no  inclination  to  be 
sociable  or  friendly,  as  she  did  with  the  man  of  the 
Turkish  pipe.  "  My  name  is  '  Merze,'  "  she  continued, 
"but  I  don't  know  you." 

"  Possibly  not,"  said  the  other,  airily.  "  I  did  not 
expect  you  would];  but  Jack  will.  Jack  is  not  the  sort  to 
forget  a  friend,  and  we  used  to  be  great  chums  in  the 
old  days.  And  to  think  he  has  a  daughter  so  near  grown 
up  !  It  makes  me  feel  old." 

But  he  evidently  carried  his  age  lightly  as  possible  ; 
so  Merze  thought  as  she  wondered  who  he  was,  this 
man  who  seemed  a  gentleman,  and  who  yet  avowed  a 
friendship  of  long  standing  with  Jack. 

Gentlemen  she  had  remembered  coming  to  their  house 
long  ago  when  she  was  smaller,  and  they  lived  in  cities; 
but  the  same  ones  never  came  very  long.  One  she 
would  see  for  weeks,  night  after  night,  and  then  he 
would  stop,  and  she  would  never  see  him  again  ;  but 
another  would  soon  take  his  place,  and  be  hail-fellow 
well-met  with  Jack.  She  often  wondered  where  they 
all  went. 

Once  there  was  one  who  had  come  often — a  young 
man  with  the  freshness  of  the  hills  in  his  face — from  the 
Alleghenies,  he  had  told  her  one  day  when  he  brought 
her  a  toy-box  decorated  with  porcupine  quills  that  had 
come  from  his  home  in  the  mountains.  He  told  her 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  39 

much  of  the  lovely  old  homestead  where  his  father  lived, 
and  where  the  woodman  worked  through  the  white 
winter  in  the  pine  woods,  cutting  trees  to  send  down 
with  the  freshets  in  the  spring.  An  only  son  he  was, 
just  through  school,  in  St.  Louis  on  business  for  his 
father,  and  Jack  was  showing  him  the  sights,  and  trying 
to  make  him  feel  at  home — so  he  told  her,  and  she  knew 
no  more.  But  after  awhile  the  light  began  fading  from 
the  boy's  face  ;  he  was  irritable,  and  had  no  more  pretty 
stories  to  tell  her.  And  then  there  came  a  day  when 
she  fell  asleep  under  the  sofa  in  Jack's  room,  and  was 
wakened  by  voices.  One  was  that  of  the  boy  from  the 
pine  country. 

"You  don't  know  what  this  means  to  me,  Mignot,"  he 
said.  "  It  is  ruin  !" 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  my  boy  !"  said  Jack  ;  "  don't  take  it 
so  much  to  heart.  If  I  had  known  they  allowed  any 
regular  card-sharpers  in  the  place  we  never  would  have 
entered  it.  I  am  cut  up  over  it  myself,  but  I  am  sure 
you  know  I  did  my  best  for  you." 

"  I  try  to  believe  you  did,"  answered  the  boy.  His 
words  were  few,  but  the  tone  went  to  Merze's  heart.  It 
was  so  full  of  utter  despair. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Jack,  "  don't  speak  like  that.  You 
are  not  yourself  to-day,  and  small  wonder,  for  the  loss 
was  a  pretty  heavy  one  ;  but  your  father  is  not  likely  to 
be  hard  on  you.  Lie  down  and  rest  until  I  come  back, 
and  then  you  can  write  him  a  letter."  Jack  lit  a  cigar 
and  sauntered  out  of  the  room,  and  the  boy,  uncon- 
scious of  Merze,  dropped  his  head  on  the  table,  and  she 
could  hear  him  whispering  over  the  word  "  Father,  father, 
father." 

Nothing  else  could  she  distinguish  ;  but,  in  peeping 


40  MERZE  : 

from  under  the  sofa,  she  saw  him  take  a  small,  shining, 
pretty  thing  from  his  pocket  and  lay  it  before  him.  He 
sat  looking  at  it,  whispering  over  and  over  that  one  name 
until  the  child  cried  silently  in  sympathy,  not  knowing 
why — only  the  tears  would  sweep  up  to  her  eyes  at  the 
sight  of  his  face,  it  was  so  white,  and  at  the  sound  of 
his  voice,  it  was  so  different.  He  arose  and  walked  to 
the  window,  and  stood  looking  out  on  the  passing  people 
while  Merze  almost  held  her  breath.  She  was  afraid  ; 
there  was  something  in  it  all  that  terrified  her.  She 
watched  him  turn  and  walk  back  to  the  table.  He  picked 
up  the  shining  thing  and  held  it  so  she  could  see,  and 
then  she  knew  what  it  was,  for  she  had  seen  Jack's— 
only  Jack's  was  not  so  small  or  so  pretty.  Once  more 
she  heard  him  whisper  that  name  of  "  father  "  as  he  raised 
the  shining  thing  to  his  head  ;  and  then  a  child's  scream 
caused  him  to  drop  it. 

She  sprang  to  him,  clasping  her  arms  about  him,  kiss- 
ing his  face,  and  trying  to  get  his  hands  in  her  two  little 
ones,  as  if  by  holding  them  was  the  only  way  she  could 
be  sure  of  no  harm  to  him.  Her  kisses  seemed  to  take 
the  rigidness  from  his  lips,  and  finally  he  laid  his  cheek 
close  to  hers,  and  she  could  feel  tears  on  her  face  that 
were  not  her  own.  Finally  he  became  more  calm,  and 
succeeded  in  quieting  her  sobs  that  had  made  her  almost 
hysterical ;  but  all  the  time  she  had  kept  her  eyes  on  the 
shining  thing  on  the  floor.  He  noticed  it  and,  picking  it 
up,  took  from  it  little  bits  of  lead,  and  then  gave  it  to  her. 

"It  has  no  danger  in  it  now,"  he  said  ;  " keep  it  for  a 
plaything.  I  do  not  want  to  see  it.  And  now  good-bye, 
child.  If  you  ever  see  me  again,  I  hope  it  will  be  when  I 
am  a  better  man.  And  I  will  be  if  he  only  forgives  me 
this  once — the  first  time  in  my  life  to  bring  him  trouble." 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  41 

Then  he  kissed  her  with  some  words  of  blessing  on  his 
lips,  and  she  never  saw  him  again.  He  was  the  only  one 
of  Jack's  many  friends  of  whose  departure  she  had 
known  anything.  The  others  had  all  quit  coming 
silently.  And  she  wondered  now,  looking  at  this  fair, 
courteous  man,  how  he  had  gone,  for  he  was  the  only 
one  she  had  ever  known  to  come  back. 

"  Yes,"  he  was  saying,  "  you  have  brought  an  added 
sense  of  age  to  me,  Miss  Merze.  To  think  of  Jack 
Mignot's  having  a  grown-up  daughter  !  By-the-way,  I 
thought  it  was  Jack  himself  in  the  woods  when  I  first 
saw  you — the  man  is  rather  the  same  build.  Was  it  a 
neighbor  of  yours — what  name  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  where  he  lives  or  his  name ;"  and 
then  it  dawned  on  her  that  the  stranger  had  forgotten  to 
enlighten  her  on  that  point.  "  I  don't  know  his  name," 
she  added. 

"Ah!" 

That  was  all  he  said  ;  but  there  can  be  so  much  con- 
densed meaning  in  that  little  word,  and  Merze  felt  her 
face  grow  hot. 

"Do  you  think  I  lie  ?"  she  asked,  darting  a  black  look 
at  his  slightly-smiling  visage.  He  saw  how  angry  she 
was,  but  the  indignation  was  very  becoming  to  the  gray 
eyes  that  changed  and  darkened  as  an  April  day — just 
so  threatening  while  it  lasted,  and  just  as  sure  to  lighten 
again ;  for  clouds  rest  so  lightly  on  young  mouths  and 
young  faces.  The  man  knew  this,  and  smiled  as  he 
looked  at  her. 

"Lie?  my  dear  Miss  Merze,  of  course  not.  True, 
your  acquaintance  did  seem  of  long  standing  from 
the  fervor  of  the  hand-clasp  ;  but  as  I  remarked  before, 
I  must  be  getting  old.  My  eyesight  may  be  failing.  I 


42  MERZE  : 

may  not  have  seen  the  hand-clasp  at  all.  Of  course  I  did 
not  since  you  say  you  don't  know  the  man." 

"  I  didn't  say  I  didn't  know  him,"  she  said,  shortly. 

He  looked  at  her  half-sulky  face  and  made  no  answer; 
but  his  smile  did  not  lessen  as  he  walked  on  jauntily 
beside  her,  whistling  half  under  his  breath  "  Scenes 
that  are  brightest."  Merze  did  not  know  what  the  air 
was,  but  all  her  life  she  hated  it,  and  never  heard  it 
without  a  remembrance  of  the  sun  sinking  over  the 
southern  hills,  and  those  two  walking  together  over  the 
grassy  path  toward  the  log  house. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  There  is  the  house,"  said  Merze,  as  they  reached  the 
fence  at  the  edge  of  the  woods,  "and  there  is  dada,"  as 
she  saw  Jack  coming  from  the  spring  with  a  bucket  of 
water. 

"  So  it  is,"  assented  the  stranger  as  he  leaped  lightly 
over  the  low  fence.  "  Give  me  your  hand,  Miss  Merze — 
so  !"  as  she  stepped  down  beside  him.  "  By-the-way,"  he 
added,  carelessly,  "  did  that  gentleman  back  there  in  the 
woods  seem  to  recognize  me  ?" 

"  You  ?"  exclaimed  Merze  ;  "  why,  no.  Do  you  know 
him  ?" 

"  No  ;  after  all  I  believe  not.  It  was  evidently  only 
a  slight  resemblance  to  a  man  I  have  seen.  I  think  you 
said  he  was  not  a  neighbor." 

"No,  he  is  a  stranger." 

She  longed  to  ask  more,  but  they  were  now  within 
speaking  distance  of  the  house.  Jack,  standing  on  the 
doorstep,  looked  at  them  intently,  and  Merze  saw  his 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  43 

face  brighten  as  she  had  never  seen  it  do  at  sight  of 
any  man. 

"  Well,  Jack,  how  goes  it  ?"  said  the  other,  speaking 
first. 

"  My  God  !"  In  a  stride  Jack  was  beside  him,  their 
hands  clasped,  his  arm  around  the  other's  shoulder. 

"  Fred  Lawrence  at  last — after  all  these  years.  It 
seems  too  good  to  be  true  !" 

"But  it  is,  old  fellow,"  said  the  new-comer  with  un- 
ruffled demeanor.  Jack  showed  his  gladness  in  his  face, 
in  his  voice,  and  in  the  hearty,  repeated  hand-shakings. 
Lawrence  was  no  doubt  glad  too,  but  he  showed  nothing. 
The  smile  was  in  his  eyes  still,  but  it  had  neither  grown 
nor  lessened.  It  was  the  same  as  when  he  walked  by 
her  side  whistling.  Merze  felt  half  angry  toward  him 
and  toward  Jack  as  well.  She  walked  past  them  both 
and  entered  the  house.  The  fire  was  out  and  supper 
was  to  get,  and  Merze  could  see  it  was  for  three  instead 
of  two.  As  she  entered  with  some  chips  Jack  called  her. 
The  two  men  had  sat  down  on  a  bench  outside  the  door 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  she  asked,  rather  shortly. 

"Come  here,"  answered  Jack.  She  went  over  to  him, 
her  hands  full  of  pine  knots  and  chips.  "  Merze,"  he 
said,  "  this  is  Mr.  Lawrence,  the  best  friend  your  dada 
ever  had  in  his  life." 

"Oh,  come  now!"  interrupted  Lawrence';  "that  is 
putting  it  rather  strong." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  replied  Jack.  "  When  a  man  gives 
up  his  only  chance  of  life  to  a  friend,  I  don't  think  there 
can  be  words  found  strong  enough." 

"  But  I  did  not  give  up  my  only  chance  ;  you  see  I 
am  living  yet." 

"You  thought  it  was  your  only  chance  when  you  gave 


44  MERZE : 

up  that  piece  of  spar  off  the  Mexican  coast,  when  the 
men  in  the  sinking  ship  were  fighting  like  wolves  over 
every  loose  plank.  Fred,  not  one  man  in  a  thousand 
would  have  done  it." 

"  Perhaps  I  should  not  have  done  so  either  had  I  not 
been  an  expert  swimmer,  and  known  every  inch  of  the 
coast,"  said  Fred,  carelessly.  "And  then,"  he  added, 
"if  you  remember,  Jack,  life  hadn't  much  that  was 
attractive  to  me  just  then." 

"I  remember,"  Jack  said,  laying  his  hand  on  the 
other's  shoulder,  half  as  if  in  sympathy,  Merze  thought. 
Then,  after  a  pause,  he  asked  :  " Is  she  living?" 

"Yes." 

Merze  looked  at  him.  His  eyes  were  seemingly  intent 
on  following  the  rings  of  smoke  floating  heavenwards 
from  his  cigar.  Something  in  his  tone  as  he  answered 
belied  his  careless  manner,  and,  for  the  first  time,  Merze 
felt  more  kindly  toward  him.  Dropping  the  pine  knots 
she  held  out  her  hand  to  him  : 

"I  am  glad  you  have  come,  Mr.  Lawrence;  not  so  glad 
as  dada,  perhaps,  but " 

"There,  there!"  interrupted  Lawrence,  "don't  spoil 
it ;  never  mind  the  degrees  of  gladness.  I  am  thankful 
for  even  that  first  concession,  for  you  most  assuredly 
were  not  glad  to  meet  me  back  there  in  the  woods,  and 
some  of  your  glances  as  we  came  along  were  anything 
but  gladsome,"  he  added,  quizzically. 

Merze  laughed  a  little  guiltily,  but  said  nothing. 

"Was  she  sulky?"  asked  Jack,  not  understanding. 
"  She  mostly  is.  How  did  you  come  to  show  him  the 
way  ?" 

Lawrence  answered  before  Merze  could  get  a  chance: 
"  I  met  her  in  the  woods  back  there  and  asked  the  way. 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  45 

She  volunteered  to  show  me,  hence  our  arrival  together. 
Here,  Miss  Merze,  le.t  me  help  you  with  that  wood." 

"  I  can  do  it  myself,"  she  answered,  "  and  my  name  is 
not  '  Miss ';  it  is  just  '  Merze.'  " 

Jack  laughed.  "  That  is  Merze  all  over  ;  no  nonsense 
about  her." 

"  All  right,  '  Merze '  it  is,  then,"  answered  Lawrence, 
picking  up  the  wood  she  had  left  and  carrying  it  in  after 
her.  "Where  shall  I  put  it?"  he  asked,  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  and  with  a  quiet  glance  taking  an 
inventory  of  its  contents. 

"  There,"  she  said,  with  a  nod  toward  the  chips  on 
the  hearth.  She  was  on  her  knees,  breaking  bits  of  bark 
on  some  live  coals,  and  fanning  them  with  her  hat. 

He  dropped  the  pine  knots  and  stood  looking  at  her. 
"  Why  don't  you  thank  me  ?"  he  asked,  mockingly. 

Her  face  flushed  slightly.  Was  it  from  the  blaze  of 
the  bark,  or  the  consciousness  of  the  unspoken  agree- 
ment that  the  unknown  man  in  the  woods  was  not  to  be 
mentioned  ?  Looking  up  she  saw  the  quizzical  light  in 
his  eyes.  He  had  seen  a  touch  of  her  temper,  and  it 
amused  him  to  arouse  it ;  but  if  his  intent  was  to  tease 
her  she  checkmated  him. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  answered,  with  suspicious  sweetness. 
"  I  forget  my  manners  very  often  ;  you  will  soon  learn 
that.  But  it  is  very  kind  of  you  to  bring  in  the  wood. 
Thank  you." 

The  man  stared  at  her  a  second  as  she  proceeded  to 
fill  the  tea-kettle  and  hang  it  on  the  crane  as  if  uncon- 
scious of  his  presence  ;  and  then  he  turned  and  walked 
out  of  the  door  with  a  bar  of  "  Scenes  that  are  brightest " 
whistled  in  a  minor  key  by  lips  that  were  twitching  with 
suppressed  laughter. 


46  MERZE  : 

"Jack,"  he  said,  as  he  again  sat  himself  beside  the 
other  on  the  bench,  "  that  girl  of  yours  is  a  character,  a 
cool  one." 

"  So  you've  found  that  out  already,  have  you  ?"  asked 
Jack.  "  You  always  had  a  knack  of  reading  people,  and 
you've  struck  it  this  time.  If  you  had  to  live  in  the 
house  with  her,  you'd  find  she  is  not  always  a  pleasant 
character— not  too  much  of  the  angel  about  her." 

"I  should  judge  not.  But  do  you  intend  to  bring  her 
up  in  this  place  ?  Rather  a  drop,  isn't  it,  old  fellow  ?" 

"  Curse  it,  yes  !  But  what  is  a  man  to  do  ?  I  have 
got  into  this  rut,  and  can't  get  out  of  it.  Her  mother  is 
buried  over  the  hill  there — that  was  a  year  ago.  It's  hard 
on  Merze,  for  she  is  one  of  the  sort  that  wants  books 
and  schooling  and  what  not,  and  the  chances  look 
mighty  dubious  now  for  her  ever  getting  them.  I  hardly 
make  enough  to  keep  things  going — barely  that." 

"  Perhaps  I  can  help  you  to  more.  That  is  what  I 
came  for." 

"  Do  you  mean  it,  Fred  ?"  and  Jack's  voice  was  very 
eager.  It  had  been  so  long  since  a  man  in  Lawrence's 
set  had  cared  to  know  whether  he  was  living  or  dead, 
and  now  that  this  one  had  remembered — had  hunted 
him  up — seemed  too  good  to  be  true.  Their  friendship 
years  ago  had  been  undoubted  ;  but  years  make  such  a 
difference.  This  Jack  had  learned,  and  ceased  to  hope  ; 
and  now  Lawrence  had  dropped  down  in  this  out-of-the 
way  place  as  if  from  the  skies — just  as  calm,  careless, 
and  nonchalant  as  ever,  and  not  a  day  older,  it  seemed 
to  Jack,  who  had,  in  the  years,  grown  away  from  him. 
But  then  Fred  had  always  been  too  cool  a  hand  to  dis- 
sipate, and  Jack  showed  in  his  face  that  he  had  not 
been  so. 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  47 

"  Of  course  I  mean  it.  If  you  want  to  earn  a  five- 
hundred-dollar  bill,  I  am  going  to  give  you  the  chance 
to  do  it." 

"  Five  hundred  dollars  !  It  would  be  a  God-send  to  me 
now." 

"  So  I  supposed,  and  the  work  will  not  be  hard.  You 
have  charge  of  Halbert's  stock,  haven't  you  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  what  do  you  want  ?" 

"That  young  mare,  Starlight,  is  talked  of  as  having 
good  stuff  in  her.  How  much  money  would  you  sink  on 
her  in  the  fall  races  beside  the  stock  that  is  known  will 
be  there  ?" 

"  Every  dollar  I  had  in  the  world,"  said  Jack,  de- 
cidedly. "  Halbert  is  keeping  her  rather  dark  ;  but  she 
is  bound  to  win  against  anything  that  is  entered  yet,  and 
will  in  the  end,  unless  some  stranger  is  run  in  on  us." 

"  That  is  just  it ;  there  is  likely  to  be  one.  If  so,  it 
is  one  that  I  will  have  an  interest  in  winning  the  money. 
Do  you  understand  ?" 

"  I  think  I  do,"  answered  Jack,  looking  at  him  and 
speaking  slowly. 

"  I  supposed  you  would.  Well,  we  can  talk  further  of 
it  on  my  way  back  to  the  station." 

"  You  are  not  going  to  leave  here  to-night,"  asserted 
Jack. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  will.  I  may  see  you  again  before  long, 
but  to-night  I  must  try  to  catch  that  one  o'clock  train  at 
the  crossing." 

"  Is  it  necessary  ?"  persisted  Jack,  loth  to  part  with 
this  one  spar  that  had  floated  back  from  the  wreck  of  his 
other  life. 

Lawrence  smiled  as  he  touched  with  his  ringed  finger 
the  dead  ashes  of  his  cigar. 


48  MERZE : 

"  Necessary  ?"  he  repeated  ;  "  well,  I  am  not  so  sure. 
But  should  I  remain,  you  might  have  another  visitor 
before  morning — one  you  would  not  welcome." 

Jack  gave  an  exclamation  of  surprise.  "After  all 
these  years  do  you  mean " 

He  stopped,  and  the  other  resumed.  "  After  all  these 
years  I  meant  just  that.  I  saw  him  yesterday  on  the 
boat,  the  first  time  in  five  years.  The  last  time  was  in 
Europe.  He  dodged  out  of  sight  yesterday  ;  but  I've  no 
doubt  he  will  follow  me — poor  devil !" 

"  Poor  devil  !"  echoed  Jack,  impatiently.  "  Fred,  in 
some  things  you  are  a  bigger  fool  than  any  man  living. 
Why  don't  you  put  an  end  to  it,  instead  of  allowing 
yourself  to  be  haunted  so  ?" 

"  Oh  !  what's  the  use  ?  Only  I  don't  care  to  be  made 
a  target  of,  so  I  must  try  to  keep  out  of  his  way." 

"  That's  all  stuff,"  answered  Jack.  "  You  a  target  ! 
the  best  shot  on  the  lower  river  !" 

"  So  they  used  to  say,"  asserted  Lawrence  ;  "  but  this 
is  a  case  in  which  I  could  not  shoot — oh,  yes,  I  know 
your  opinion  " — as  Jack's  face  expressed  his  contempt ; 
"  but  that  don't  alter  my  ideas.  It  is  not  hard  to  avoid 
him.  He  is  getting  too  miserably  poor  to  travel,  and,  as 
I  have  been  doing  considerable  of  it  in  late  years,  it  is 
easy  to  keep  out  of  his  way.  You  see,  sometime  she  may 
be  able  to  understand,  and  if  she  did,  what  would  she 
say  if  I  had  harmed  him?  And  then  there  is  the  child." 

Both  men  sat  silent  after  this,  Lawrence  watching  a 
hawk  soaring  high  up  against  the  pink  of  the  sky.  Inside 
they  could  hear  Merze  as  she  walked  back  and  forth 
over  the  loosened  boards  of  the  floor  ;  the  crackle  of  the 
flame,  and  the  hissing  of  the  tea-kettle  came  to  them. 
Did  the  homely  sounds  bring  a  sense  of  rest  to  this  man 


THE   STORY   OF   AN   ACTRESS.  49 

whom  Jack  had  called  haunted  ?  He  leaned  back  on  the 
bench,  closing  his  eyes  in  a  tired  way.  Then,  and  then 
only,  could  Jack  see  that  the  years  were  telling  on  him — 
the  years  that  the  blue  eyes  had  met  so  dauntlessly  and 
smiled  down  ;  but  in  repose  their  cool  brightness  was 
hidden,  and  tiny  lines  showed  that  the  surveyor,  Time, 
had  mapped  out  the  path  over  which  Old  Age  would  one 
day  walk. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Merze  came  to  the  door.  "Come,  dada,"  she  said. 
The  supper  was  very  slim  and  not  very  well  prepared, 
but  no  apologies  were  offered.  If  Merze  felt  a  half 
shame  and  reluctance  in  offering  a  cup  with  a  broken 
handle  to  this  visitor,  she  did  not  let  it  be  known  beyond 
a  slight  flush  of  the  face  or  a  nervousness  of  the  hands 
as  she  arranged  the  scant  tableware.  But  the  keen  eyes 
opposite  her  saw  and  understood,  feeling  a  half  pity  for 
her  pride,  mingled  with  admiration  for  the  cool  self-com- 
mand with  which  she  ignored  her  surroundings. 

Supper  over  and  the  table  cleared,  they  still  sat  around 
it  talking  of  past  years,  of  old  chums,  of  war  times  which 
they  shared  together — tales  of  field  and  camp  life  over 
which  they  laughed,  and  to  which  Merze  listened  as 
eagerly  as  they. 

"  I  wish  there  would  be  another  war,"  she  declared. 
"  If  there  were  I  would  go  with  dada." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  wouldn't,"  replied  Jack.  "  If  dada  ever 
shoulders  a  gun  again  it  will  be  to  carry  it  to  a  pawn- 
shop ;  and  there  are  plenty  others  who  fought  on  both 
sides  who  feel  the  same — good  soldiers,  too." 

"  I  wouldn't,"  said  Merze  ;  "  it  must  be  grand — the 

4 


50  MERZE : 

music  and  the  cheering  and  the  thunder  of  the  cannon  ! 
I'd  go  if  they  would  have  me." 

"And  be  frightened  to  death  at  the  first  shot,"  laughed 
Lawrence. 

"Would  I?"  she  flashed  back.  "I  can  shoot  better 
than  most  boys  of  my  age,  can't  I,  dada  ?  Give  me  your 
revolver.  I'll  let  you  see  if  I'm  afraid  of  powder  !"  Jack 
handed  her  his  revolver.  "  What  shall  I  use  for  a 
target  ?" 

"  That  barrel  in  front  of  the  door,"  suggested  Law- 
rence, for  which  she  gave  him  a  withering  look. 

"  I  will  use  that  slim,  white  sycamore  by  the  spring, 
and  the  bullet  will  strike  within  an  inch  of  the  line  where 
the  fence  reaches."  Lawrence  laughed  at  the  tinge  of 
bravado  in  her  tone.  "Don't  you  believe  I  can?"  she 
demanded. 

"Don't  ask  about  my  belief,"  he  answered;  "but  if 
you  can  hit  that  mark  in  this  light  you  will  do  for  a 
soldier,  and  will  deserve  a  prize." 

She  stood  in  the  doorway.  From  the  dusk  of  the  sur- 
rounding trees  the  white  sycamore  shone  like  a  slim, 
white  ghost.  Crack  !  went  the  revolver.  "  Now  go  and 
see,"  she  said  to  Jack,  who  went  without  demur. 

"  Half  an  inch  from  the  line,"  he  called  back.  "  Come 
and  see,  Fred." 

"You  have  made  your  boast  true,"  said  Lawrence, 
coming  back.  "  Not  an  easy  thing  to  do  even  in  sunlight. 
I  have  no  medal  for  you  as  a  prize,  but  here  is  something 
you  can  keep  in  trust  until  I  can  replace  it  with  some- 
thing to  your  taste.  Shall  it  be  a  silver-mounted  re- 
volver ?"  and  he  held  out  to  her  the  ring  he  had  worn. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  take  that,  it  is  too  handsome  !"  she  said, 
drawing  back. 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  51 

'*  Never  mind  its  beauty.  I  only  give  it  to  you  in 
pawn  until  I  have  something  to  leave  instead,"  and  he  put 
the  ring  in  her  hand,  taking  the  revolver  from  her  as  he 
did  so.  He  was  about  to  lay  it  on  the  table,  when  he 
looked  at  it  closer.  "That  looks  like  a  duplicate  of 
mine,"  he  remarked,  and  taking  one  from  his  pocket  and 
laying  it  beside  Jack's.  They  were  indeed  fac-similes  of 
each  other.  After  comparing  them  each  returned  his 
own  to  his  pocket. 

Merze  bid  them  good-night  early,  as  she  wanted  to 
get  in  her  room  alone,  such  a  new  strange  current  seemed 
to  have  drifted  into  her  life  that  day,  and  she  wanted  to 
be  alone  to  think  it  all  over. 

"  I  will  say  good-bye  instead  of  good-night,"  said  Law- 
rence, offering  his  hand.  "  I  leave  to-night." 

"  But  you're  coming  back  sometime  ?" 

•"  Certainly,  to  exchange  a  revolver  for  the  ring.  Jack 
and  I  are  going  to  talk  business  now,  and  the  outgrowth 
of  it  may  be  that  you  will  leave  these  hills.  Would  that 
please  you  ?  I  see  it  would.  Well,  good-bye  until  I  see 
you  again." 

Then  she  left  them  alone  in  a  haze  of  smoke  from 
pipes  and  cigars,  and,  throwing  herself  on  the  bed, 
dressed  as  she  was,  gave  herself  up  to  thoughts  which 
the  day  had  brought — the  one  day  which  in  all  her  life 
was  to  stand  alone,  apart  from  all  others.  How  vague 
and  wild  and  sweet  were  the  fancies  born  of  that 
meeting  by  the  overturned  chestnut !  How  great  he 
was !  Ah  !  if  sometime  she  might  see  him  again,  and 
hear  him  tell  her  she  had  done  well  in  any  of  the 
things  he  had  counseled.  And,  added  to  these,  came 
the  thought  of  Lawrence's  words,  significant  of  some 
change  in  their  lives.  She  was  conscious  of  a  half- 


52  MERZE  : 

defined  wish  that  it  had  been  her  unknown  friend  in- 
stead of  Lawrence  who  had  been  the  one  to  deliver 
them  from  this  poverty-striken  life — why,  she  could 
not  have  told.  Lawrence  had  been  most  kind,  but 
neither  his  ring  nor  hints  of  prosperity  for  them  could 
eclipse  the  memory  of  a  strong,  dark-eyed  face,  or  drown 
the  echo  of  a  mellow  musical  voice  with  its  undertone 
half-mocking,  half-sad.  Lying  on  the  bed,  her  hands 
clasped  above  her  head,  her  eyes  closed,  the  words  and 
tones  came  back  to  her,  and  with  them  came  bright  hopes 
that  left  smiles  about  her  lips. 

"  How  good  it  is  that  I  can  remember  it  all — every 
word — and  the  way  he  looked  and  spoke  !  I  never 
remembered  anyone's  words  so  before.  But  then  it  was 
only  to-day — perhaps  I  will  forget."  She  was  lying  in  a 
half-dreamy  state  when  that  thought  came  to  her :  "  Per- 
haps I  will  forget."  Her  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating 
at  the  shock  of  the  words  that  filled  her  with  terror.  Her 
eyes  were  wide  open,  her  hands  clenched  closely  over 
her  breast  as  if  to  keep  within  the  memories  she  feared 
time  might  dim.  She  was  only  a  child,  and  did  not  know 
that  to  many  women  there  is  ever  a  present  in  which  they 
are  only  too  happy  to  find  oblivion  from  the  past,  no 
matter  how  sweet  their  past  was  when  they  had  it.  She 
was  too  much  of  a  child  to  know  that — a  child  who  slipped 
from  the  bed  to  the  floor  in  an  attitude  of  prayer — she 
who  in  all  her  life  had  been  taught  nothing  of  prayers — 
kneeling  there,  shivering  with  terror  at  the  thought  of 
those  memories  ever  slipping  out  of  her  reach,  muttering 
over  and  over:  "  Don't  let  me  forget.  Kill  me,  but  don't 
let  me  forget !" 

Her  words  were  as  the  pleadings  of  a  darkened,  dis- 
traught mind  to  which  a  gleam  of  sanity  had  been  given, 


THE   STORY   OP    AN    ACTRESS.  53 

followed  by  the  sickening  fear  that  it  may  not  last,  just 
so  intense  was  the  fear  that  had  come  to  her,  child  as  she 
was. 

How  long  she  crouched  there  on  the  floor  she  could 
not  tell.  She  heard  the  men's  voices  outside  as  they 
walked  up  and  down  the  yard.  Finally  they  stopped 
somewhere  near,  but  she  paid  no  heed.  They  were 
seated  on  the  bench  outside  the  door,  and  Jack  had  evi- 
dently forgotten  that  the  window  of  Merze's  room  was 
open  beside  them.  And  through  her  simple,  aimless 
prayer — for  to  no  deity  was  it  offered ;  it  was  rather  to  a 
something  within  herself  that  she  pleaded — a  something 
whose  depth  and  strength  had  never  been  tested,  but  on 
which  she  now  relied  and  to  which  she  repeated:  "  Don't 
let  me  forget — "  Through  this  self-communion  there 
came  to  her  ears  a  name,  one  that  brought  her  back  from 
the  visionary  hopes  and  fears  to  the  real  life  about  her. 
The  name  was  that  of  the  boy  who  had  loaned  her  books, 
Glenn  Halbert.  It  was  Jack's  voice  speaking  :  "  Yes, 
Starlight  belongs  to  the  boy.  The  rest  of  the  stock  is 
the  old  man's.  The  races  are  several  weeks  off,  so  I 
will  have  plenty  of  time;  no  danger  of  hurry  or  bungling." 

"  Well,  it  means  just  that  much  money  to  you,  and  a 
prospect  of  something  better.  I  shall  fit  up  a  place  in 
the  West  this  winter,  and  will  need  someone  to  help  with 
it.  If  this  affair  goes  all  right  the  berth  is  yours." 

"And  you  may  bet  all  you've  got  it  will  go  right," 
declared  Jack.  "  You  may  put  your  money  on  the  other 
side  as  high  as  you  want  to,  for  Halbert's  nag  won't  have 
wind  enough  left  to  carry  her  around  the  track  by  the 
time  I  dose  her." 

"  Don't  go  to  extremes,  Jack  ;  be  cautious,"  advised 
Lawrence. 


54  MERZE : 

And  then  their  conversation  went  on,  but  it  was  on  the 
probable  chances  of  horses  whose  names  Merze  did  not 
know,  and  she  heeded  nothing  of  their  words.  "  What 
shall  I  do?  What  can  I  do?"  she  thought,  blankly. 
Starlight,  pretty,  spirited  Starlight,  that  Glenn  loved  as 
if  she  were  a  human  being  !  Glenn,  who  despite  his  teas- 
ing had  been  good  and  kind  to  her  !  She  must  tell  him; 
but  how  and  when  ? 

Long  she  sat  there  thinking  what  she  should  do,  until 
her  head  was  aching  and  dizzy.  Then  mechanically  she 
rose  and  crept  out  into  the  other  room.  The  candle 
had  burned  out.  Only  the  moon  threw  a  pale  light  over 
the  floor.  The  men  were  still  in  front  of  the  house. 
Like  a  ghost  she  slipped  out  through  the  back  door,  which 
stood  open,  out  through  the  yard  until  she  reached 
the  strip  of  meadow  where  there  was  neither  bush  nor 
fence  to  hide  her  in  case  they  should  glance  that  way. 
Down  she  dropped,  and  crept  through  the  grass  like  a 
slim,  agile  snake,  scarcely  daring  to  breathe  in  the  in- 
tensity of  her  fear  that  they  may  stop  her.  Her  one 
thought  was  that  Halbert  must  know  to-night;  for,  per- 
haps, before  she  could  get  there  in  the  morning  something 
might  be  done  to  injure  Starlight;  what,  she.  had  no  idea; 
only  she  knew  Jack  meant  harm  to  the  horse. 

Once  out  of  the  meadow  she  rose  to  her  feet  and  ran 
— on  along  the  by-path  skirting  the  timber — heedless  of 
branches  that  caught  at  her,  of  briars  that  tore  her  clothes 
and  her  hands — on  through  the  clearing  where  the  black- 
ened stumps  loomed  up  tomb-like  and  spectral.  A 
distant  dog's  bark  came  to  her  ears  ;  an  owl  hooted  by 
her  almost  in  her  face  ;  startled  night  birds  fluttered  from 
her  path  ;  lurid  fox-fire  gleamed  from  a  dark  mass  up  in 
the  woods  above  her ;  but  by  all  she  passed  without 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  55 

seeing  or  hearing.  To  get  there  and  back  home  again 
before  Jack  would  fasten  up  the  house  or  know  she  was 
gone,  was  her  only  thought.  At  last  she  reached  the 
white  gate  of  the  Homestead.  A  dog  came  bounding 
toward  her  across  the  low  fence — a  big,  grizzled  mastiff, 
with  fiery  eyes,  making  long  leaps.  Swiftly  as  he  ran,  he 
made  no  sound.  Closer,  closer  he  came,  with  the  danger 
betokened  by  silence  in  every  sinewy  stretch  of  the  supple 
body.  The  girl  stopped,  her  face  pallid  with  horror. 
She  knew  the  brute,  and  knew  the  danger.  Two  days 
before  he  had  thrown  and  killed  a  young  heifer,  and  her 
limbs  seemed  paralyzed.  She  tried  to  turn  and  run,  but 
could  not.  She  tried  to  scream,  but  all  her  voice  seemed 
locked  in  her  throat.  Another  leap  and  he  would  be  on 
her  !  She  held  out  her  hand  as  the  panting  breath  came 
near  enough  to  be  felt.  "Bruno,"  she  whispered,  for 
only  under  her  breath  could  she  find  strength  to  speak. 
He  knew  her  voice,  but  too  late  to  check  his  headlong 
leap.  His  immense  paws  fell  with  crushing  force  on  her 
breast  and  struck  her  to  the  ground.  A  faint  scream  fell 
on  the  still  air  of  the  night,  and  then  she  lay  like  a  dead 
thing,  moveless,  breathless,  with  the  dog  crouching  beside 
her  with  a  cringing,  subdued  whine  that  seemed  to  plead 
for  pardon  or  some  sign  of  life.  But  none  came,  and, 
raising  his  face  skyward,  he  gave  a  couple  of  sharp  barks, 
followed  by  a  long,  low  howl,  such  as  the  superstitious 
turn  in  their  beds  at  the  sound  of,  and  murmur :  "  The 
dog  calls  for  a  death.  God  keep  it  from  our  dearest !" 
From  a  solitary  window  of  the  Homestead  a  light  shone. 
All  the  rest  was  dark.  As  that  faint  scream  rent  the  air, 
the  curtain  of  the  lighted  room  was  drawn  aside,  and  a 
figure  stood  in  the  window  a  moment  as  if  listening,  and 
was  about  to  turn  away  when  the  dog's  howl  sounded 


56  MERZE  : 

dismally  through  the  stillness.  In  a  moment  the  figure 
was  out  through  the  window  onto  the  dewy  sward  of 
the  lawn. 

"  Bruno  !    What  is  it,  Bruno  ?" 

No  Bruno  came  in  answer,  but  again  came  tnat  mourn- 
ful call  to  his  ears.  The  figure  of  a  man  followed  the 
sound  until  a  turn  in  the  path  brought  him  within  two 
feet  of  the  girl  lying  on  the  grass.  The  dog  was  licking 
her  hands,  moaning  and  whining  the  while. 

"  Merze  !  What  does  this  mean  ?  Merze  !  Merze  !" 
But  the  white  face  lay  unmoved,  the  icy  hands  nerveless. 
"Watch  her  Bruno,  good  Bruno  !"  and  the  man  turned 
again  toward  the  house.  Swiftly  he  covered  the  distance 
and  came  back  with  a  flask  in  his  hand.  Forcing  a  little 
of  the  contents  between  the  white  lips,  he  watched  the 
faint  struggle  for  breath,  and  then  the  big  eyes  opened 
wide,  and  met  the  others  bending  above  her.  Twice 
she  tried  to  speak,  but  the  white  lips  refused  their  office, 
and  she  could  only  look. 

"  Lie  still ;  don't  try  to  talk,"  said  the  man,  who  was 
holding  both  her  hands  in  his  as  if  to  give  them  warmth. 
"  Here,  try  and  swallow  some  more  of  the  brandy." 

She  shook  her  head  while  her  hands  closed  around 
his. 

"  King  Arthur  !  King  Arthur  !  I  am  so  glad — I  will 
never  forget — "  She  had  forgotten  all :  her  errand,  her 
fright,  and  the  cause  of  that  deathly,  sinking  sensation 
which  had  seemed  to  her  as  if  all  life  was  slipping  from 
her  grasp. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  Bruno,  who  had  stood  at  her 
head,  came  timidly  around  beside  her  and  laid  his  nose 
against  her  shoulder.  As  she  saw  him,  memory  came 
back,  and  the  man,  seeing  the  terror  in  her  eyes,  drew 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  57 

her  closer,  as  he  would  a  little  child,  while,  with  the  other 
hand,  he  pushed  the  dog  away. 

"  Never  mind,  it  is  all  right.  Bruno  won't  harm  you ; 
don't  be  so  frightened,  child."  Thus  he  talked  softly, 
soothingly,  his  voice  sounding  to  the  girl  as  a  caressing 
lullaby  after  the  horror  she  had  endured.  But  through 
it  all  there  came  to  her  sharply  the  sense  of  where  she 
was  and  the  reason  of  her  coming. 

"  Help  me  up,"  she  said.     "  I  must  go." 

"  You  must  do  nothing  of  the  sort ;  you  must  remain 
here,  until  morning  at  any  rate,"  asserted  the  man,  as  he 
noted  the  trembling  of  her  form  and  the  pallor  of  her 
face. 

"I  must,  I  tell  you  !"  she  answered  determinedly,  per- 
sisting in  rising  to  her  feet,  where  she  swayed  and  would 
have  fallen  but  for  him.  "  Oh,  what  is  it  that  ails  me  ?" 
she  half  whispered.  "  Everything  seems  slipping  away 
— brandy,  give  it  me  quick  !"  He  held  it  to  her  lips  and 
she  swallowed  a  little,  still  clinging  to  him  as  if  deter- 
mined to  stand. 

"  Let  me  carry  you  to  the  house  and  call  one  of  the 
women-servants." 

"  No,"  she  answered,  straightening  herself  with  an 
effort.  "  I  don't  dare  ;  I  must  go  at  once.  I  can  stand 
now;  the  brandy  helped  me.  Don't  let  them  know  I  am 
here  ;  no  one  must  know;  only  you  must  tell  them  about 
Starlight  early  in  the  morning." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  assented,  soothingly,  thinking  her  mind 
was  a  little  dazed.  "  But  come  to  the  house.  If  you 
must  go  home,  I  must  get  you  a  wrap  and  go  with  you." 

"  Oh  !"  she  burst  out,  irritably,  "  I  tell  you  no  !  I  will 
go  alone,  and  you  must  tell  them  to  send  Starlight  away, 
or  do  something  with  her.  Don't  look  at  me  as  if  my 


58  MERZE : 

head  was  wrong.  That  is  what  I  came  for,  because  it  is 
Glenn's  animal.  I  ran  all  the  way,  and  then  Bruno 
frightened  me  so;  but  it  is  all  going  away.  I'm  all  right 
now." 

The  man  looked  at  her  through  this  broken,  disjointed 
speech,  not  understanding,  but  feeling  that  she  was  in 
earnest. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said  at  last,  "  what  is  it  you  mean  ? 
Why  must  they  send  Starlight  away  ?" 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  ?"  she  asked,  impatiently.  "  Be- 
cause if  she  stays  they  will  do  something  to  her  to  keep 
her  from  winning  the  race." 

"How  do  you  know?  Tell  me  all  about  it;  who  will 
harm  her  ?" 

"  I  can't.  I  must  go.  Tell  them  if  they  do  keep  her 
here,  to  let  no  one  but  Hen  touch  her  feed.  No  one  could 
bribe  him,  and  he  must  not  leave  her  night  or  day.  Oh  ! 
make  them  listen,  and  mind  what  I  tell  you  ;  only  don't  let 
them  know  who  informed  you." 

"  Would  it  bring  harm  to  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  it  might  bring.  They  can't  kill 
me,  I  suppose.  But  I  must  go.  I  am  so  glad  it  was 
you  who  came  to  me;  I  was  afraid  I  would  never  see  you 
again." 

"  Are  you  strong  enough  to  go  alone  ?  Let  me  go 
with  you,"  he  offered  again,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  no,  you  must  not.     I  am  all  right  now." 

"  Put  this  in  your  pocket,"  and  he  handed  her  the  flask 
of  brandy.  "You  may  feel  faint  again."  She  demurred 
until  he  said  decidedly:  "  If  you  won't  take  this,  you  must 
take  me,  for  I  can't  have  you  go  alone  with  nothing  to 
strengthen  you.  Take  it  to  please  me,  and  if  you  find 
yourself  getting  faint  don't  hesitate  to  swallow  it.  Now, 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  59 

good-night,  since  you  insist  on  going  alone.  You  are  a 
brave  girl  to  come  as  you  have  to  warn  them  about  the 
mare.  I  will  have  it  attended  to  without  suspicion  regard- 
ing you  or  your  father." 

She  looked  at  him,  feeling  that  he  understood,  but 
would  not  betray  her.  "Thank  you,"  she  said,  "thank 
you,"  and  with  a  swift,  sure  step,  in  which  force  of  will 
eclipsed  physical  strength,  she  turned  and  walked  away 
in  the  moonlight,  while  for  the  second  time  that  day  the 
man  watched  her  disappearing  form  with  curious  emo- 
tions. 

"  A  brave  child,  Bruno,"  he  said,  as  she  faded  from 
view  in  the  silvery  belt  of  young  willows  that  skirted  the 
faintly-lighted  fields.  "A  curious  compound  of  weak- 
ness and  strength,  but  a  brave  child  !" 


CHAPTER    VII. 

Back  over  the  wood  path  walked  Merze,  keeping  her 
steps  sure  and  her  form  erect  despite  the  buzzing,  con- 
fused feeling  in  her  head.  She  saw  the  landmarks  she 
passed  not  a  half  hour  before,  but  to  her  dazed  senses 
years  seemed  to  have  elapsed  since  she  ran,  heedless  of 
the  night's  awe,  careless  of  the  branches  and  briers 
clutching  at  her  as  she  sped.  Then  a  dozen  fears  and 
fancies  born  of  her  errand  chased  one  another  through 
her  brain ;  now  she  walked  on,  steadily,  swiftly  on, 
with  only  one  dull,  never-changing  thought  in  her  throb- 
bing brain — the  thought  that,  though  she  dropped  dead 
on  the  threshold,  yet  she  must  force  strength  to  get  once 
more  in  her  own  room:  that  Jack  must  find  her  there  in 
the  morning. 


60  MERZE : 

Her  eyes  were  half-blinded  and  dizzy,  but  she  fought 
it  off  and  kept  steadily  on.  She  thought  it  must  be  a 
thing  like  death  that  was  coming  to  her,  dulling  her 
senses  and  putting  that  murmur  in  her  ears,  like  the 
sound  of  many  voices  afar  off,  and  then  growing  nearer 
and  nearer,  until  they  crowded  so  close  about  that  they 
seemed  to  leave  her  no  room,  except  close  against  a  large 
tree.  She  clung  to  it,  steadying  herself  as  well  as  she 
could,  though  earth  and  heaven  seemed  swaying;  and,  as 
she  became  more  conscious  and  tried  to  go  on,  there 
came  to  her  again  that  murmur  of  voices — not  imaginary 
this  time,  for,  faint  as  she  was,  she  knew  it  was  human 
tones. 

Shrinking  back  into  the  shadow,  she  waited  until  they 
should  pass.  Up  in  the  woods  above  gleamed  the  fox- 
fire; all  else  was  in  dense  shadow  under  the  trees.  Sud- 
denly, between  herself  and  it  passed  a  something  that 
obscured  it ;  not  an  owl,  it  was  too  large  ;  not  an  animal, 
it  was  too  silent.  Awe-stricken,  she  watched  it,  and  as 
her  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  gloom,  she  saw  it  was 
a  man,  a  man  who  was  standing  not  twenty  feet  from 
her — standing  as  if  listening  to  the  voices  that  came 
nearer  and  nearer,  and  from  the  direction  of  her  home. 

She  never  could  tell  how  long  she  stood  so,  watching 
the  man  who,  unconscious  of  her  presence,  was  waiting 
for  the  owners  of  the  voices.  She  saw  them  coming 
along  the  path  where  it  crossed  an  open  space,  and  where 
the  moon's  light  fell  full  on  Lawrence  and  Jack. 

She  had  only  time  to  see  who  it  was  and  to  shrink 
closer  into  the  shadow  when  that  other  silent  watcher 
walked  deliberately  into  the  path  ahead  of  them.  At 
the  same  instant  a  shot  cut  the  air,  quick,  sharp  ;  and 
following  it  came  three  others,  almost  simultaneously. 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  61 

She  heard  broken  exclamations,  and  a  second  later  only 
two  men  stood  in  the  open  space,  and  one  of  those 
was  staggering  and  grasping  at  the  other's  arm. 

"  Jack,  old  fellow — my  God,  Jack  !  are  you  hit  ?" 

"Yes."  That  was  all  the  answer,  in  a  voice  that 
sounded  husky  -and  uncertain. 

Merze  did  not  scream,  though  the  words  came  to  her 
distinctly ;  but  in  a  moment  she  crashed  through  the 
low  brush  and  was  beside  him.  She  half  stumbled  over 
something  lying  rn  the  path,  and  her  foot  came  down  on 
a  thing  which  turned  as  a  snake  does  when  trod  on.  She 
passed  unheeding,  not  knowing  it  was  the  wrist  of  a 
dead  man. 

"  Dada  !  dada  !"  she  cried,  as  he  sank  between  herself 
and  Lawrence  to  the  ground. 

"  Merze,  is  it  you  ?    I  am  glad.     I " 

"  Don't  try  to  talk,"  admonished  Lawrence.  "Where 
are  you  hit  ?  I  hope  to  God  it  is  not  serious  !"  He 
looked  at  Merze  in  amazement ;  but  this  was  no  time  for 
questionings,  and  his  face  was  very  anxious  as  he  bent 
over  Jack. 

"  It's  too  late  for  that  hope,"  answered  Jack.  "  He 
has  settled  me.  Poor  Merze,  poor  girl !" 

"  Don't  give  up,  Jack  ;  it  may  not  be  fatal.  We  will 
send  for  the  nearest  doctor.  Where  are  you  hit  ?" 

Jack  looked  at  him,  shaking  his  head. 

"  It  is  here,"  he  answered,  pointing  to  where  the  blood 
was  oozing  out  a  little  below  the  throat.  "  A  doctor  can 
do  no  good.  I  know  what  a  shot  like  this  means.  It 
may  leave  me  an  hour,  not  more.  Don't  move  me.  Let 
me  be  here  with  Merze — poor  Merze  !" 

The  girl  had  said  nothing.  She  sat  holding  his  head  in 
her  lap,  her  hand  crimson  with  the  blood  she  was  trying 


62  MERZE  : 

to  staunch,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  With  every  labored 
breath  it  spurted  out  afresh.  She  was  not  crying,  but  at 
Jack's  last  words  she  lifted  her  face  toward  Lawrence 
with  such  a  depth  of  tearless  grief  in  her  eyes  that  the 
man  turned  his  head  and  rose,  clenching  his  hands  in  the 
bitterness  of  his  great  grief  and  rage. 

"  Oh,  God  !"  he  half  whispered,  through  set  teeth, 
"  what  can  I  do  ?  Must  I  let  you  die  like  this,  and  for 
me?  That  shot  was  meant  for  me.  Oh,  Jack,  Jack!" 
He  was  walking  to  and  fro,  with  broken  words,  half 
curses,  half  prayers,  on  his  lips.  There  was  no  mis- 
taking the  man's  sincerity.  The  thought  of  Jack  dying 
in  his  stead — through  him  —  metamorphosed  the  cool, 
self-contained  stranger  into  a  wild  man. 

Merze  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  scarce  seeing  the 
blood  drops  falling  from  it. 

"  Don't !"  she  cried.  "  Be  quiet ;  it  hurts  him."  For 
Jack's  eyes  showed  his  wishes,  though  he  could  not 
speak.  But  when  Lawrence  came  and  knelt  quietly 
beside  him  he  smiled,  and,  after  an  effort,  whispered  :  "  I 
must  talk  ;  some  whiskey  !" 

"  And  I  have  not  a  drop  !"  groaned  Lawrence. 

"Here,"  said  Merze.     "In  my  pocket;  get  it,  quick!" 

In  a  moment  Lawrence  had  it,  and  was  holding  it  to 
Jack's  lips.  It  revived  him,  and  he  laid  one  hand  on 
Lawrence's. 

"  I  want  to  talk  while  I  can.  I  am  glad  you  are  here — 
only  you  and  Merze — with  me  at  the  last.  You  gave 
up  your  chance  of  life  once  to  me,  and  now " 

"  Don't,  Jack  !"  broke  in  the  other,  huskily.  "  You  are 
dying  for  me — don't  I  know  it  ?  You  took  the  bullet 
meant  to  reach  me — God  in  heaven,  why  did  it  not  ?" 

Again  Merze  threw  out  her  hand   in   restraint,  and 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  G3 

again  he  silently  obeyed  her.  She,  child  as  she  was, 
with  all  her  weight  of  dull,  dumb  agony,  seemed  the 
stronger  of  the  two. 

"  Because  your  time  hadn't  come,  Fred,  and  mine  has. 
Don't  fret,  old  fellow  ;  it  was  down  on  the  cards,  and  had 
to  be  played  ;  nothing  could  alter  that.  But  my  last 
game  has  cleared  the  table  of  that  thing  which  has 
hoodooed  you  so  long."  And  Jack  made  a  movement 
toward  the  dark  mass  at  the  edge  of  the  moonlit  space. 
"  Is  it  all  over  with  him  ?" 

Lawrence  walked  over,  and  bent  for  a  moment  toward 
the  form  over  which  the  chill  of  death  had  already 
fallen. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  in  a  subdued  voice,  but  loud 
enough  for  them  to  hear  distinctly. 

"  How  many  shots  struck  him  ?"  asked  Jack. 

Lawrence  knelt  for  a  moment,  running  his  hands  over 
the  body  before  him.  Then  he  rose  and  came  back. 

"  One,"  he  said,  looking  at  Jack  questioningly.  Some- 
thing like  a  smile  passed  over  Jack's  face  at  the 
word. 

"  It  is  luck,"  he  said,  gaspingly  ;  "a  little  luck  at  last." 
He  motioned  for  the  flask,  which  Lawrence  held  to  his 
lips,  and,  after  a  little  while,  continued  :  "  I  want  you  to 
listen,  both  of  you.  They  say  the  eyes  of  the  dying  see 
clear.  I  think  so  now.  I  see  something  that  means 
danger  to  you — that  means  death." 

"  Never  mind  me,"  said  Lawrence  ;  "  think  of  yourself 
and  of  Merze,  poor  child  !  If  I  could  only  help  you  in 
this." 

"Poor  child!"  echoed  Jack.  "But  you  will  try  to 
keep  her  from  fretting,  I  know  that.  It  is  the  other 
I  must  speak  of  while  I  can.  If  you  are  found  here 


64  MERZE : 

by  anyone  who  knows  him  it  is  you  they  will  accuse  of 
his  murder." 

"  Let  them  !"  answered  Lawrence,  fiercely.  "  Perhaps 
they  would  be  right.  It  may  have  been  my  bullet." 

"  And  it  may  have  been  mine,"  added  Jack.  "  We 
will  never  know.  Did  you  think  of  that  ?" 

Lawrence  looked  at  him  questioningly,  and  then  his 
face  cleared. 

"  True.  I  did  not  think  of  it.  They  were  both  alike. 
Strange  it  should  have  happened  so." 

"  Not  so  strange.  It  is  luck,  I  tell  you.  Luck  sent  to 
clear  you  and  give  me  a  chance  to  pay  the  debt  I've 
owed  you  for  years." 

"  What  are  you  talking  of,  Jack  ?  Think  of  Merze, 
not  me." 

"  I  am  thinking  of  you  both.  She  is  a  good  girl,  and 
will  back  me  up  in  what  I  want  done,  for  she'll  know  it's 
my  last  deal,  and  will  not  object.  Some  more  of  that 
brandy." 

He  was  growing  weaker,  despite  the  sustaining  power 
of  the  brandy ;  his  breath  came  spasmodically,  and  the 
voice  was  growing  more  broken  and  uncertain.  Merze, 
holding  his  head,  could  feel  the  convulsive  bracing  of  the 
muscles  as  he  made  an  effort  to  continue. 

"  Don't  say  anything.  Let  me  finish  first.  Merze,  this 
was  my  only  friend  ;  remember  that,  and  do  as  I  ask. 
To-morrow,  when  they  ask  you,  do  not  tell  them  Fred 
was  here.  I  killed  him.  Tell  them  I  said  so.  Prom- 
ise me." 

"  I  won't  have  it !"  exclaimed  Lawrence.  "  I'll  take  my 
chance.  It  is  enough  to  lose  your  life  like  this,  through 
me,  without  leaving  that  legacy  to  Merze." 

"  She  will  leave  here.     You  take  care  of  her.    Change 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS,  65 

her  name.  No  one  need  know  who  her  father  was. 
There  are  no  relations  but  her  mother's  people.  Never 
go  to  them.  Promise  me,  Merze.  I  hated  them  always  ! 
Don't  go  to  them." 

"  I  never  will,  dada,"  answered  the  girl,  soothingly, 
for  the  memory  of  them  had  infused  a  spirit  of  impo- 
tent hate  into  the  red  tide  of  his  veins,  and  was  causing 
it  to  ebb  the  faster. 

"  That  is  a  good  girl  !  a  good  girl  !  And  you  will  tell 
them  I  killed  him.  There  was  no  one  else.  Remember 
that — you  will  tell  them  ?" 

The  girl  did  not  answer.  She  was  trying  to  think  what 
she  should  say,  but  could  not  concentrate  her  thoughts  ; 
and  her  mind  was  wandering,  wandering  off  to  another 
time  when  Jack's  head  had  lain  in  her  lap  just  so.  It 
was  on  a  flat-boat  opposite  Natchez.  Her  mother  was 
sitting  near,  sewing,  and  looking  ill-tempered.  Some 
negroes  were  singing  a  little  below,  on  the  bank,  and 
Jack  lay  with  his  head  in  her  lap,  drunk.  She  had  a 
willow  branch,  and  was  keeping  the  flies  off  his  face. 
There  was  one  big  one  that  would  not  go,  but  came  back 
again  and  again.  And  the  wash  of  the  waves,  and  the 
soft,  soothing  refrain  of  the  song,  and  the  heat  of  the  sun, 
made  her  so  drowsy — so — 

"  Merze,  don't  say  you  won't !  Promise  me  quick  ! 
It's  the  last  thing  I  have  to  ask  of  you.  I've  been  bad, 
bad  ;  but  it's  your  duty  to  help  me  square  what  I  can." 

Jack's  voice  brought  her  to  with  a  start.  One  word 
struck  a  chord  that  otherwise  he  might  not  have 
reached.  Was  it  chance  that  placed  it  on  Jack's  lips  ? 
The  word  he  had  disregarded  all  his  life — duty.  Like  a 
flash  came  to  her  the  counsel  in  the  woods — the  words 
of  the  man  who  seemed  to  her  fit  to  be  lawgiver  to 
5 


66  MERZE : 

the  world  :  "  Do  the  work  duty  brings  to  you,  if  you 
would  make  good  use  of  your  life." 

"Promise  me,  Merze,  promise  me  !" 

"  I  promise,  dada,"  she  answered. 

He  gave  a  sigh  of  content,  and  sank  a  little  heavier 
against  her  arm. 

"Then  it's  all  right.  She  will  keep  her  word,  Fred; 
so  go.  Catch  that  train.  You  can  do  it  yet." 

"  Go,  Jack,  and  leave  you  like  this  ?  I  can't  do  that ; 
don't  ask  it.  The  girl  will  be  alone  without  you  ;  think 
of  that." 

"  She  is  not  afraid.  Come  or  send  for  her  after  a  few 
days,  when  it  is  all  over.  Try  and  give  her  school — I 
can't — I — " 

"  While  I  have  a  dollar  she  shall  be  cared  for,  be  sure 
of  that." 

"  I  am — I  wish  I  could  see "  His  voice  died  away, 

and  the  brandy  was  once  more  held  to  his  lips.  He 
swallowed  it,  and  looked  up  into  the  other  man's  face 
long  and  steadily  ;  then  he  asked  : 

"  There  is  no  one  in  your  life — no  woman  ?" 

"You  know,"  answered  the  other.  "Why  do  you 
ask  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  they  will  take  her — her  mother's  people. 
She  will  be  a  woman  soon.  There  is  one  way " 

"Would  it  please  you  ?"  is  all  Lawrence  said. 

"  Yes.  I  am  afraid — the  law  will  give  her  to  them.  I 
hate  them.  Don't  let  it — don't  let  it." 

"I  won't  if  Merze  is  willing,"  answered  Lawrence. 
Then  he  turned  to  her.  She  had  heard  their  words, 
scarcely  heeding  or  understanding.  Her  eyes  were 
watching  the  fitful  rise  and  fall  of  Jack's  throat.  Law- 
rence laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  as  he  said  : 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  67 

"  Merze,  it  seems  terrible  to  speak  of  this  now,  but  it 
is  to  content  him.  Would  you  be  willing  to  marry 
me  ?" 

"  Marry  you  ?"  repeated  the  girl,  in  a  dazed  way, 
knitting  her  brows  in  pained  perplexity. 

"  Yes  ;  listen.  Jack  has  given  you  to  me.  I  am  to  take 
care  of  you  and  send  you  to  school ;  but  he  would  die 
more  contented  if  you  would  also  promise  to  be  my 
wife." 

"  Oh,  dada,  dada  :     What  does  it  mean  ?" 

"  It  is  for  your  good,  Merze  ;  so  you  can  be  taken  care 
of  when  dada  is  gone.  It  will  change  your  name  ;  the 
others  won't  find  you  then.  It  would  please  me.  Will 
you,  Merze  ?" 

"  I  don't  care,"  she  answered,  listlessly,  numb  with  it 
all.  I  will  do  as  you  ask." 

"Merze,  my  little  Merze!"  he  half  whispered;  and 
then  to  Lawrence  :  "  Go  now,  at  once.  As  I  said,  don't 
let  them  find  you  here." 

"Jack,  I  can't!"  muttered  the  other,  rising,  and  looking 
across  toward  the  dark  mass  with  the  steel  of  a  revolver 
gleaming  near  it.  "  Leaye  Merze  alone  in  such  a  place  ? 
I  can't  do  it !" 

Merze,  watching  Jack's  face,  saw  the  intensity  of  his 
anxiety. 

"  Do  as  he  asks,  Mr.  Lawrence,"  she  urged.  "  I  am 
not  afraid  ;  he  is  right.  I  have  promised  to  tell  what  he 
wants  ;  but  it  is  all  of  no  use,  he  says,  if  you  and  your 
revolver  are  found  here.  Go  at  once  ;  it  will  satisfy  him. 
Please  do.  It  is  hurting  him  to  hear  you  refuse." 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment,  and  then  knelt  beside 
them. 

"  Jack,  old  friend,  I  will  go,  and   will  do  as  you  say. 


68  MERZE  : 

She  shall  be  taken  care  of  until  she  is  a  woman,  and 
then " 

«  NOW — now,"  faltered  the  other.  "  Your  hands  so  I 
can  see  them — promise  each  other." 

Lawrence  looked  at  Merze,  and  reached  his  hand 
across  the  dying  man's  form.  Merze  laid  hers  in  it. 

"  I  promise  to  legally  marry  her  as  soon  as  she  is 
willing." 

"  Promise,  Merze,  promise,"  whispered  Jack. 

"I  promise  to  marry  him." 

Jack  gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  whispered  :  "  It  is  the 
same  as  a  marriage  ;  remember  that,  Merze,  the  same  as 
a  marriage.  Go  now — go,  Fred,  and  good  luck — go — 
with — you." 

For  a  moment  the  men  clasped  hands,  and  looked  into 
each  other's  eyes  for  the  last  time.  Then  Lawrence 
rose,  and  Merze  heard  his  steps  grow  fainter  and  fainter; 
but  she  did  not  look  after  him.  Her  eyes  were  on  Jack's 
face. 

He  lay  quietly  ;  his  breathing  was  more  even.  Was 
it  her  fancy  that  every  breath  was  a  little  fainter  than  the 
last  ?  Once  or  twice  she  heard  him  whisper  :  "  Merze, 
my  Merze  !" 

Ten  minutes  may  have  elapsed  when  they  were  found 
so,  she  sitting  in  the  same  position,  her  face  like  white 
marble,  he  with  the  signs  of  life  so  faint  that  only  her 
eyes  could  detect  it  still  there. 

A  man,  coming  along  the  wood  path  with  a  Turkish 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  stopped  short  at  the  sight  of  the  three 
figures  in  the  open  moonlit  space.  Then  he  sprang  for- 
ward to  her  side. 

"  God  in  heaven  !     What  is  it,  child  ?" 

She  looked  up  and  tried  to  speak,  but  no  words  came. 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  69 

"I  heard  the  shots,  and  grew  uneasy.  Finally  I 
started  to  walk  this  way — and  all  the  time  you  have  been 
with  this — alone!" 

He  tried  to  help  her  to  rise  by  lifting  the  burden  from 
her  lap — the  body  he  thought  lifeless  from  the  icy  touch. 
Did  that  last  word  reach  the  sense  of  the  dying  ?  The 
eyes  closed  and  opened  again,  the  throat  rose  and  fell 
with  the  intense  struggle  for  the  words  which  came  : 

"  Alone — I — I  killed  him — alone  !" 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  Is  she  no  better  ?" 

It  -,vas  one  week  later,  and  the  speaker  was  the  careless- 
looking  man  whom  Merze  had  called  "  King  Arthur."  He 
was  sitting  on  the  wooden  bench  outside  the  door  of  the 
log  house  where  Jack  and  Lawrence  had  sat  and  talked 
that  last  night  together. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  as  she  is,  and  I  don't  know  but 
what  she  is ;  she's  quiet  now,  anyway,  an'  that's  one 
blessin',  fer  her  talk  jest  about  druv  me  distracted.  But 
now  that  her  kinsfolks  has  sent  someone  to  look  after 
her  I  won't  have  so  much  of  it  on  my  shoulders.  She's 
to  take  her  somewhere  to  her  folks,  as  soon  as  she's  able 
to  be  moved  ;  that's  what  she's  come  fer,  I  reckon." 

"  Can  I  see  the  nurse  ?" 

"  I  expect  not,  but  I'll  ask  her,"  and  the  lanky  speci- 
men of  feminine  Kentucky  sidled  into  the  house.  She 
had  been  bothered  by  so  many  questioners  during  the 
past  week  that  they  had  begun  to  meet  with  scant  cour- 
tesy when  they  thronged  clown  the  country  roads,  curi- 
ous to  hear  all  concerning  the  double  tragedy,  and  peer 


70  MERZE : 

into  the  square,  oddly-furnished  room  where  the  bodies 
had  lain  during  the  inquest— in  which  there  was  but  one 
witness,  and  that  was  the  man  waiting  outside. 

He  had  heard  three  or  four  shots — four  he  thought, 
and  had  walked  in  their  direction.  Had  found  the  stranger 
dead,  and  had  been  in  time  to  hear  Mignot's  last  words, 
in  which  he  said  he  had  killed  the  man.  Two  chambers 
had  been  emptied  from  each  man's  revolver,  and  the  jury 
agreed  that  each  had  come  to  his  death  at  the  hands  of 
the  other  ;  why  or  wherefore  none  could  tell,  as  none  had 
ever  seen  the  stranger  in  those  parts,  though  people  had 
come  from  far  and  near  to  look  and  speculate  over  the 
affair. 

On  that  point  alone  had  Merze  been  questioned  that 
morning  :  "  Did  she  know — had  she  ever  seen — the  dead 
man  ?  or  did  she  know  the  cause  of  the  tragedy  ?" 

To  all  she  could  truthfully  say  "  No."  And  by  noon 
she  was  past  answering  any  questions,  and  the  verdict  was 
rendered,  and  the  bodies  buried  just  outside  the  pailings 
of  the  country  graveyard,  side  by  side. 

The  girl  lay  babbling  of  blood  that  was  turning  all  the 
grass  red,  and  begging  them  to  take  the  snowdrops  away 
— away  where  it  would  not  drip  over  them  ;  and  then  she 
would  forget  them  in  her  pleading  for  "  Dada,  dada, 
dada  !"  until  tears  would  creep  up  to  the  eyes  of  the  sun- 
bronzed  woman  beside  her. 

That  day  for  the  first  time  she  was  quieter,  and  as  the 
woman  drew  aside  the  curtain  from  the  door-way,  she 
seemed  sleeping.  By  the  little  square  window  at  the 
end  of  the  room  sat  another  woman — not  one  of  the  na- 
tives— one  could  see  that  at  a  glance  ;  but  a  quiet,  self- 
contained  looking  person  in  a  neat  black  dress,  who  was 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  an  old  magazine  in  an  idle  way. 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  71 

"What  is  it,  Mrs.  Williams?"  she  asked,  looking  up. 

"  It's  a  man  that  wants  to  know  if  he  can  talk  to 
you." 

"  Who  is  he  ?" 

"  I  know  him  by  sight,  but  ain't  good  at  'membrin' 
names.  He's  a  visitor  'cross  at  Halbert  Homestead. 
He's  the  man  that  found  the  bodies." 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  should  be  annoyed  by  those  people. 
I  don't  know  anything  about  the  affair,  and  don't  want 
to,  and  you  can  tell  him  so,"  and  she  turned  again  to  the 
book  ;  but  Mrs.  Williams  hesitated. 

"  I  couldn't  tell  him  that  very  well ;  he  ain't  like  none 
of  the  people  hereabouts,  an'  I  don't  think  he  wants  to 
say  anything  about  the  shootin'.  I  reckon  it's  about 
her,"  with  a  jerk  of  her  thumb  toward  the  girl  on  the 
bed. 

"  Oh,  well !  I  will  see  him,  then,  if  you  remain  here," 
and,  rising,  she  passed  into  the  other  room,  and  then  to 
the  door. 

"You  wished  to  speak  with  me?"  she  said  to  the  dark 
man  who  raised  his  hat  with  a  grace  not  met  often  "  here- 
abouts," as  Mrs.  Williams  expressed  it. 

''Are  you  the  lady  who  has  come  to  nurse  Merze ?" 

"  Well,  I  have  not  come  to  nurse  her,  but  since  she  re- 
quires it  I  do  it.  As  soon  as  she  can  be  moved  I  am  to 
take  her  away  ;  that  is  what  I  came  for." 

"  Pardon  me,  but  are  you  a  relative  ?"  he  asked,  won- 
dering who  this  compact,  business-like  little  woman  was, 
and  if  she  would  have  any  part  in  the  future  life  of 
the  girl  in  the  darkened  room. 

"  No,  I  am  not  a  relative — merely  a  companion  sent  to 
take  the  girl  to  her  friends." 

u  Then  she  has  friends  to  care  for  her  ?" 


72  MERZE : 

"Yes." 

"  Would  you  mind  telling  me  who  they  are  ?"  The 
woman's  manner,  though  courteous  enough,  did  not  in- 
vite questioning,  and  he  was  not  much  surprised  when 
she  answered  :  "  I  can't  do  that.  They  evidently  want 
to  separate  her  entirely  from  her  present  surroundings. 
I  would  like  to  oblige  you,  but  can't.  I  am  simply  paid 
to  take  charge  of  the  girl,  fit  her  out  with  wardrobe,  etc., 
and  take  her  to  the  person  in  whose  employ  I  am.  I  be- 
lieve she  is  to  be  put  to  school  at  once,  judging  from  the 
style  of  dresses  and  things  I  am  to  buy  her.  The  things 
in  the  house  are  to  be  disposed  of  as  she  wishes  ;  but  of 
her  destination  after  leaving  here  I  am  to  answer  no 
questions." 

"  All  I  cared  to  know  was  if  she  would  have  an  assured 
home.  No  doubt  her  relatives  would  want  her  to  forget 
all  her  life  here,  poor  child  !  It  will  be  well  if  she  can. 
I  have  been  much  interested  in  her,  but  if  she  has  friends 
to  claim  her,  I  can  be  of  no  use,  I  suppose.  I  leave  this 
part  of  the  country  to-day,  and  would  like  to  leave  my 
address  for  her  in  case — well,  in  case  she  should  ever 
need  a  friend.  When  she  is  better,  will  you  give  it  to 
her  ?" 

"  You  can  leave  it."  She  did  not  say  she  would  de- 
liver it,  but  he  did  not  note  the  evasion  in  her  reply.  He 
scribbled  a  few  lines  on  a  card  and  handed  it  to  her,  and 
she  put  it  in  her  pocket,  and  turned  to  go  in. 

"  Am  I  not  to  see  her  ?"  he  asked,  noticing  that  her 
manner  did  not  seem  to  favor  a  visit. 

She  hesitated,  looking  uncertain. 

"Oh,  well!"  she  said,  at  last,  "I  suppose  you  can. 
They  didn't  say  anything  about  letting  people  see  her, 
so  I  will  not  be  disobeying  orders  anyway.  Come  in." 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  73 

He  followed  her  in  through  the  big  square  room  and 
under  the  curtain  of  the  door. 

"  I  think  she  is  sleeping,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone,  as 
he  stood  silently  by  the  bed.  She  lay  with  closed  eyes, 
her  cheeks  flushed,  her  hair  scattered  in  bronze  waves 
over  the  pillow.  One  hand  was  over  her  head,  the  other 
lay  brown  against  the  green-and-white  patchwork  of  the 
quilt,  and  on  one  finger  he  saw  gleaming  a  ring — an  opal 
surrounded  by  diamonds — a  strange  thing  for  her  to 
wear.  It  had  been  there  that  night  when  he  carried  her 
home  in  a  dead  faint  and  laid  her  on  the  home-made 
lounge  while  he  went  to  tell  the  neighbors  of  two  bodies 
found  on  the  wood  path,  but  he  had  not  noticed  it.  He 
had  told  none  that  Merze  was  found  by  her  father's  side 
that  night ;  why,  he  could  not  have  explained  to  himself, 
unless  it  was  to  save  her  the  pain  of  answering  unneces- 
sary questions.  She  had  answered  the  leading  ones,  and 
he  thought  that  was  all  that  should  be  required  of  her ; 
but  now,  looking  at  the  costly,  old-fashioned  ring,  he  was 
not  so  sure.  But  she  was  past  answering  now  for  many 
a  day. 

"What  does  the  doctor  say  ?  Is  she  out  of  danger?" 
he  asked.  The  flushed  face  made  him  anxious,  know- 
ing, as  he  did,  the  intense  strain  put  on  the  girlish 
form  that  one  night. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  woman,  "  she  will  be  all  right  now 
with  good  nursing." 

The  man  looked  long  at  the  closed  lids,  which  were, 
nevertheless,  very  tremulous — disturbed,  perhaps,  by  the 
voices,  or  was  it  at  the  sound  of  the  one  voice  she  had 
begged  so  never  to  forget  ?  As  he  turned  to  leave,  they 
raised  ;  the  big  eyes  opened  wide,  gazing  up  into  his. 

"The  snowdrops,"   she  muttered,  "the  snowdrops; 


74  MERZE ' 

bring  them  to  me.  Not  the  ones  with  red  drops  on  them — 
the  white  stars  that  grow  so  deep  in  the  shade  ;  but  we 
can  find  them  some  day— if— only  I  don't  forget !" 

Then  the  voice  died  away  in  inarticulate,  broken  mur- 
murs, while  a  moisture  crept  into  the  man's  eyes  as  he 
heard. 

"God  grant  that  you  don't  forget,  child,"  he  said,  and, 
pulling  his  slouched  hat  low  over  his  eyes,  he  turned  with 
no  words  to  either  of  the  women  standing  by,  and 
walked  through  the  other  room  out  into  the  sunshine. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Doubt,  a  blank  twilight  of  the  heart,  which  mars 
All  sweetest  colors  in  its  dimness  same  ; 

A  soul  mist,  through  whose  rifts  familiar  stars 
Beholding,  we  misname.  — Ingelow. 

A  murmur  and  clatter  of  girlish  voices  filled  the  air  and 
floated  up  through  a  window  where  two  forms  were  out- 
lined against  the  white  background  of  a  calcimined  wall 
— those  walls  that  hold  so  little  of  cheer  in  their  unvary- 
ing sameness — as  little  of  homeliness  as  one  finds  in  the 
walls  of  a  hospital. 

"  Is  that  all  he  says,  Miss  Lawrence  ?" 

"  That  is  all  in  which  you  can  have  any  interest,  Miss 
Powell." 

The  woman's  face  flushed  darkly  at  the  girl's  tone. 
She  stood  irresolutely  for  a  moment,  looking  as  if  it 
would  have  given  her  pleasure  to  strike  the  smiling,  inso- 
lent face.  Then  she  turned,  and  said  : 

"I  shall  repeat  your  rudeness  to  Mrs.  Smith,  and 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  75 

allow  her  to  speak  to  you,  since  my  kindly  overtures 
have  met  with  such  ingratitude." 

"  Yes,  do,"  said  the  girl,  persuasively;  and  she  coolly 
resumed  interest  in  the  croquet  game  before  her.  When 
she  turned  again,  Miss  Powell  was  gone. 

"The  cat!"  she  muttered  ;  "why  can't  she  leave  me 
alone  ?  She  was  dying  to  know  why  I  was  leaving,  and 
all  about  it.  I  wonder  what  she  would  say  if  she  did 
know  all  about  it  ?"  And  the  girl's  face  lightened  with 
a  half-dreaming,  half-sarcastic  smile,  as  she  saw  in  her 
mind's  eye  the  sensation  which  the  newly-received  letter 
would  occasion  if  its  contents  were  known  to  her  school- 
mates and  teachers. 

The  letter  was  still  clasped  close  in  her  hand,  as  when 
she  had  deliberately  folded  and  held  it  in  front  of 
Miss  Powell's  eyes,  that  were  questioning  as  to  its  con- 
tents. She  opened  it  again,  and  glanced  down  until 
she  came  to  the  lines  :  "  I  am  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  go 
for  you,  and  hope  you  will  not  mind  the  short  journey 
alone.  I  will  meet  the  boat  at  Wheeling,  where  I  will 
make  arrangements  for  our  marriage ;  and,  as  I  have 
business  in  Baltimore,  and  must  go  through  at  once,  I 
will  take  you  with  me.  Now,  if  there  is  anything  in  this 
to  which  you  object  or  would  wish  changed,  write  me  at 
once  ;  if  not,  I  shall  expect  to  take  formal  possession  of 
you  one  week  from  the  day  this  reaches  you  ;  and,  until 
then,  am  yours  as  ever,  FRED  LAWRENCE." 

"  A  week  from  to-day  !" 

She  dropped  her  hands  in  her  lap,  and,  leaning  her 
head  against  the  window-casing,  gazed  out  over  the  girls 
beneath — over  the  rolling  hills  to  the  south,  where  a  haze 
of  smoke  betrayed  the  site  of  Cincinnati — the  haven  for 
the  girls  when  a  holiday  was  in  question — for  all  but  her. 


76  MERZE  : 

She  alone  had  been  there,  winter  and  summer,  for  four 
years,  with  never  a  vacation  ;  and  not  very  happy  years 
were  they.  Mrs.  Smith's  Home  for  Young  Ladies  was 
conducted  on  strictly  business  principles,  from  which 
neither  the  principal  nor  her  niece  ever  diverged  enough 
to  allow  sympathy  or  understanding  for  the  heart-needs 
of  their  pupils. 

To  Lawrence  this  view  had  never  presented  itself.  It 
was  a  school  where  they  boarded  girls — that  was  all  he 
knew.  He  had  been  asked,  among  other  questions,  by 
the  principal :  "  What  religion  ?"  It  had  disconcerted 
him  for  a  moment,  knowing  so  little  of  Jack's  family, 
and  at  last  he  answered  : 

"None!" 

"  None  ?"  echoed  the  prim-looking  lady,  with  a  note 
of  pained  surprise  in  her  voice — the  lady  whose  opinion 
of  another  person's  work  on  the  "  Mosaic  Origin  of  the 
Pentateuchal  Codes "  had  been  so  much  praised — 
"  none  ?" 

"None,"  he  answered.  "  Teach  her  all  you  can — all 
she  wants  to  know,  but  let  her  choose  for  herself  as  to 
religions." 

And  so  Merze  had  entered  the  school  under  a  ban. 
Few  know  or  thoroughly  understand  the  faith  of  their 
own  fathers,  and  beyond  a  monotonous  prayer  every 
morning,  they  were  not  enlightened  on  those  questions 
in  the  school.  But  all  of  them  were  taught  at  home  to 
believe  in  something,  and  looked  askance  at  the  big-eyed 
girl  with  close-cropped  hair  and  thin  face.  For  in  some 
unknown  way  it  had  been  whispered  about  that  the  new- 
comer was  an  unbeliever,  an  atheist — a  thing  terrible. 
Some  of  the  smaller  girls  were  afraid  of  her,  and  went  to 
bed  in  fear  and  trembling,  until,  as  time  went  on,  and 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  77 

the  house  had  not  been  struck  by  lightning,  and  no 
earthquake  had  visited  the  region,  they  began  to  grow 
braver,  but  never  enough  so  to  pass  the  room  alone  in 
the  dark.  And  Merze,  not  knowing  the  cause,  knew 
only  the  outgrowth  of  it,  and  grew  cold  and  distant  to 
all,  while  they  looked  on  her  as  an  alien — this  girl  who 
mentioned  no  kindred,  no  home,  no  friends,  no  God.  If 
there  is  any  congregation  more  clannish  than  a  consolida- 
tion of  school  girls,  I  have  yet  failed  to  find  it ;  and  to 
Merze,  heartsick  and  sombre,  needing,  as  but  few  need, 
the  companionship  of  loving  hearts,  they  were  implac- 
able. 

But  that  did  not  prevent  her  studying.  Books — the 
things  she  had  longed  for  always — were  within  her  reach, 
and  in  them  she  forgot  the  chilliness  about  her,  unless,  at 
times,  it  was  thrust  on  her  notice,  and  then  her  curt 
tongue  left  them  with  a  sort  of  respect  for  the  girl  who 
could  hold  her  own  so  well  in  their  encounters,  and  who 
was  working  steadily  ahead  of  most  of  them  in  the  studies 
they  shared  together.  But  in  none  did  she  find  the 
friend  or  chum  so  dear  to  girlhood.  The  nearest 
approach  to  it  was  when  one  of  the  girls,  a  slight,  timid 
creature,  fell  in  the  grounds  and  sprained  her  ankle,  and 
Merze,  finding  her,  raised  the  light  form,  and  carried  her 
bodily  into  the  house,  and  helped  dress  and  care  for  her 
until  she  was  quite  well. 

The  girl,  Alice,  at  first  shrank  a  little  from  the  self- 
appointed  nurse;  but  she  found,  when  the  pain  was  most 
severe,  no  words  were  so  gentle,  no  hand  so  caressing,  as 
the  girl's  she  had  been  taught  by  example  to  shun. 

"  Shall  I  read  you  something  ?"  Merze  asked  one  day, 
when  she  was  still  unable  to  walk.  Alice  gladly  con- 
sented ;  but  when  Merze,  picking  up  a  book  from  the 


78  MERZE : 

table,  began  reading  in  musical,  subdued  tones  that  old 
story  of  fair,  proud  Queen  Vashti,  the  girl  turned  to  her 
in  amazement. 

"Why,  that  is  the  Bible  !"  she  cried,  involuntarily. 

"  Do  you  not  like  it  ?"  asked  Merze.  "  I  did  not 
know  ;  it  was  on  the  table,  so  I  took  it." 

"But — but  I  thought  you  did  not  read  it,"  stam- 
mered Alice. 

"Oh,  yes,"  answered  Merze,  calmly;  "there's  one  on 
the  shelf  in  my  room.  I  read  everything  I  get  my 
hands  on,  so  I  read  it.  There  are  many  beautiful  things 
in  it  for  all  the  coarseness  under  which  so  much  of  it 
is  hidden." 

"  Oh,  hush,  hush  !"  pleaded  Alice  in  terror.  "  Oh,  Miss 
Lawrence,  don't  say  such  wicked  things  !" 

"  Wicked  ?"  said  Merze,  looking  at  her  astonishedly, 
"  how  wicked  ?" 

"  Why,  to  speak  like  that,  as  if  it  were  any  ordinary 
book.  Mrs.  Smith  would  be  very  angry  if  she  knew;  she 
is  so  religious,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  answered  Merze,  smilingly.  "In  the 
whole  course  of  my  life  I  have  met  no  one  so  thor- 
oughly religious  as  our  Mrs.  Smith,  and  I  am  sure  I 
have  never  met  anyone  who  possessed  so  much  pure, 
unadulterated  meanness  in  little  things,  many  of  which 
we  could  not  speak  of  as  being  strictly  honest,  even." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Lawrence  ;  if  she  should  hear  you  ! " 
breathed  Alice,  in  affright.  "  None  of  the  girls  ever  dare 
say  such  wicked  things." 

"  Why  not  ?  I  am  sure  neither  herself  nor  her  amiable 
niece  ever  spare  their  opinion,  no  matter  who  it  falls  on. 
As  to  the  other — the  book,  I  don't  see  why  people  should 
be  called  wicked  for  saying  what  I  did." 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  79 

"  I  don't  know.  Of  course  we  all  have  them  and 
believe  in  them  ;  but  I  don't  think  any  of  the  girls  ever 
read  them  except  in  class,  and  I  am  sure  none  of  them 
could  ever  pick  one  up  to  read  aloud  from  to  another  as 
you  have  done." 

"  Yet  you  believe  in  it — have  a  sort  of  faith  in  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  would  be  afraid  not  to  have  ;  it  would 
seem  so  dreadful !  It  is  inspired,  you  know — divine." 

Merze  laughed.  "  Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  Voo- 
doos of  the  South  ?"  she  asked. 

The  girl  nodded. 

"  Well,  they  would  stake  their  souls  on  the  healing  and 
miraculous  power  possessed  by  a  little  shapeless  mass 
given  them  by  one  of  their  rulers  or  doctors.  It  would 
be  sacrilege  for  them  to  doubt ;  the  thing  to  them  is 
divine,  the  one  who  prepared  it  inspired.  But  let  it  be 
taken  apart,  and  all  you  find  is  the  bones  of  a  frog,  the 
feathers  of  a  fowl,  the  long  hair  of  some  woman's  head. 
Perhaps  if  you  were  to  open  the  book  which  now 
serves  you  only  as  the  amulet  does  the  Voodoo,  and 
read  it  thoroughly,  you  might  not  have  such  a  terror  of 
thinking  for  yourself." 

This  conversation  had  occurred  a  year  after  her  en- 
trance to  the  school,  and,  coming  through  Alice  to  the 
ears  of  the  other  inmates,  had  not  the  effect  of  rendering 
them  more  social.  And  she  had  a  contempt  for  them 
in  her  mind — a  contempt  for  the  prim,  sweet-faced  lady 
who  expended  her  kind  glances  and  gentle  words  on 
the  wealthier  pupils,  at  the  same  time  that  she  weighed 
out  niggardly  portions  of  tea  and  sugar  for  the  girls' 
table.  And  through  her  contempt  for  the  pettiness 
around  her  there  grew  a  yet  deeper  one  for  that  which 
they  called  their  religion — of  which  she  had  seen  little 


80  MERZE : 

but  meaningless  forms,  cold,  unattractive,  without  soul. 
In  her  ignorance  she  knew  nothing  of  any  other,  and  she 
had  no  one  to  teach  her;  small  wonder,  then,  that  she  grew 
indifferent  as  to  whether  they  were  right  or  wrong.  But 
their  book  of  faith,  their  Bible,  she  continued  to  read  more 
as  a  history  than  aught  else,  and  because  of  the  poems 
whose  depth  and  strength  appealed  to  her  love  of  the  beau- 
tiful. But  it  was  only  the  beauty  she  searched  for.  The 
divinity  in  it  was  unintelligible  to  her.  She  passed  it  by 
as  a  child  goes  through  the  standing  wheat,  grasping  at 
the  nodding  daisies,  the  golden  buttercups,  but  uncon- 
scious that  the  mainstay  of  human  life  stands  close 
around  ready  for  the  harvest. 

That  which  came  nearest  being  a  substitute  for  relig- 
ion was  the  laws  of  duty  to  herself,  to  others,  that  were 
given  her  by  her  friend  of  the  brushes  and  pipe.  In 
her  life  he  was  the  one  divinity — the  man  who  had  come 
to  her  that  one  day  at  her  greatest  need — who  had 
understood  and  helped  her,  and  had  then  dropped  out 
of  her  knowledge  as  quickly  as  he  had  come,  but  leav- 
ing the  impression  of  his  mind  and  thought  on  her  own. 
It  may  have  been  that  very  manner  of  coming  and  going 
which  made  a  lasting  impression  on  her  girlish  love  for 
the  stranger.  Sometimes  she  felt  as  if  it  were  all  a 
fantasy  of  her  illness — the  coming  of  the  man  who  was 
so  unlike  other  men.  But  even  when  her  better  reason 
told  her  it  was  not,  she  never  could  think  of  him  without 
a  veneration  tinged  with  awe  that,  unconsciously  to  herself, 
approached  superstition.  She  never  expected  to  see 
him,  but  in  all  her  studies  which  she  conquered  she 
did  so  with  the  thought :  "  He  meant  me  to  study  so 
thoroughly." 

Toward  Lawrence  she  had  gratitude  for  his  kindness 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  81 

— too  much  to  annoy  him  by  the  knowledge  of  how  dis- 
tasteful her  surroundings  were  ;  for  she  knew  nothing  of 
his  financial  standing,  and  feared  it  might  embarrass 
him  to  send  her  to  another  school.  Letters  came 
from  him  regularly — not  a  lover's  letters,  but  very 
kind  ones,  often  accompanied  by  presents  calculated  to 
please  a  girl.  Her  schoolmates  would  look  curiously 
at  these,  for  they  remembered  the  fair,  jaunty,  handsome 
man  who  came  at  long  intervals,  who  seemed  the  only 
friend  she  had,  and  whose  visits  were  of  the  briefest. 

"  Your  guardian  is  a  relative,  I  presume,  since  the  names 
are  alike  ?"  queried  Mrs.  Smith. 

And  Merze  had  answered  :  "  Yes,  a  relative."  For  ever 
in  her  mind  were  Jack's  words :  "  It  is  the  same  as  a 
marriage,  Merze — remember  that — the  same  as  a  mar- 
riage," and  she  supposed  that  would  be  called  a  relation- 
ship, and  answered  accordingly. 

And  now,  in  a  few  days  more,  they  were  to  ratify 
that  contract  made  over  the  dying.  Was  she  glad  or 
sorry  ?  Sitting  there  in  the  window,  his  letter  clasped 
in  the  hand  which  wore  his  ring,  she  could  hardly  tell. 

Glad  she  was  to  get  out  of  the  walls  of  the  place 
— out  into  the  world  ;  but  once  there,  her  visions  of  the 
future  were  rather  vague.  She  felt  that  the  dreamy  am- 
bitions of  her  early  girlhood,  her  longing  childhood, 
were  not  to  be  realized.  She  had  accustomed  herself  to 
that  thought  through  the  many  weeks  since  the  date 
of  the  marriage  had  been  settled.  She  would  have  been 
happier  could  she  have  said  :  "  Give  me  back  my 
promise ;  let  me  have  the  world  unfettered  ;"  but  she 
feared  it  would  be  ingratitude  to  Lawrence,  who  had 
been  so  good  to  her.  And  Jack  had  said  their  words 
were  a  marriage,  so  she  had  come  to  look  upon  it  as 

6 


82  MERZE  : 

something  that  was  to  be,  a  thing  too  far  accomplished 
for  any  word  of  hers  to  undo  it  now. 

And  so  she  was  to  be  Lawrence's  wife  !  She  knew 
less  than  most  girls  what  that  title  meant.  She  had 
never  chatted,  as  most  girls  do,  over  their  probable 
lovers,  husbands  or  homes.  She  was  nineteen,  and  there 
had  been  no  lover  in  her  life,  no  surreptitious  billets 
had  been  pored  over  in  the  secresy  of  her  room.  But 
among  the  books  in  the  school  library  she  had  found 
poetical  works  in  which  the  vivid  coloring  of  the  pen- 
pictures  appealed  to  her  senses — the  tender  tales  this 
thing  which  the  poets  called  "  love,"  and  which  she  tried 
to  understand — this  thing  over  which  she  pondered  with 
dreamy  eyes  and  a  vague  dissatisfaction  toward  her- 
self. She  felt  it  was  something  beautiful,  just  as 
she  did  the  poems  in  the  Bible  ;  but  beyond  that  she 
could  not  go ;  the  divinity  in  it  escaped  her.  Yet  she  was 
to  be  a  wife  in  a  week. 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  subdued  glow  of  amber  globes  sent  a  soft  flood  of 
light  over  a  richly-furnished  room  and  its  two  occupants, 
the  one  gazing  steadily  into  the  mass  of  blazing  coals  in 
the  tiled  fireplace,  the  other  watching  her  over  the  top 
of  the  newspaper  he  was  supposed  to  be  reading.  It 
was  a  fair  enough  picture  for  any  man's  eyes  to  rest  on 
with  delight — with  rapture  even,  if  he  were  so  lucky  as  to 
be  its  possessor.  A  well-shaped  head  coiled  round  with 
tempestuous  bronze  hair,  on  which  the  flickering  fire- 
light brought  out  gold  tinges  that  came  and  went,  form- 
ing an  ever-changing  frame  for  a  gray-eyed  face  that 
looked  as  if  cut  from  creamy  marble — only  to  marble 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  83 

could  not  be  given  the  red  lips,  full  and  smooth  as  a 
child's.  They  were  curved  in  a  half-bitter  smile  as  she 
sat  there  unconscious  of  his  eyes  on  her — his  eyes  that 
had  a  curious,  searching  expression  in  them. 

Finally  he  laid  down  his  paper.  The  movement  arrested 
her  attention,  and  she  withdrew  her  eyes  from  the  fire 
with  a  start,  but  did  not  turn  them  toward  him  ;  instead, 
she  sank  down  a  little  lower  in  the  sleepy-hollow  chair. 
He  smiled  at  the  abject  indolence  of  the  attitude. 

"  Do  you  know,  Mrs.  Lawrence,  you  are  the  personifi- 
cation of  laziness  ;  but  for  all  that  you  are  looking  very 
handsome  to-night  ?" 

"I  ought  to,"  came  from  the  depths  of  the  chair;  "you 
paid  enough  for  this  dress  I  have  on." 

"  Yes,  it  is  pretty,"  he  said,  looking  admiringly  at  the 
velvet  folds,  black  in  the  shadows,  royal  purple  in  the 
firelight ;  "  and  there  are  not  many  women  who  could 
wear  that  shade  as  you  do.  It  is  quite  regal,  and  suits 
your  face.  Oh,  yes !"  he  continued,  as  she  sat  upright 
as  if  on  the  alert  for  sarcasm  in  his  voice.  "  Oh,  yes  !  I 
mean  it.  You  have  a  regal  face,  Merze  ;  but  if  it  were  a 
little  less  so  it  would  be  more  charming.  It  is  too  cold." 

"  So  sorry  it  is  not  to  your  taste,"  she  murmured, 
glancing  at  her  reflection  in  a  mirror  opposite. 

"  Oh,  it  is  to  my  taste  !"  he  said,  lighting  a  cigar  and 
leaning  back  to  enjoy  it.  "  That  style  of  thing  is  very 
much  to  my  taste  on  canvas  or  in  marble — a  perfect 
model  for  an  Antigone  or  something  of  that  sort  ;  but  I 
wonder  if  Antigone  ever  unbent  or  relaxed,  even  in  the 
bosom  of  her  family  ?" 

She  flung  her  hand  out  impatiently,  but  said  nothing. 

"It  is  lucky  for  me,"  he  went  on,  calmly,  "that  I  am 
not  an  impetuous  young  lover.  If  I  were,  jealousy  might 


84  MERZE  : 

crop  out  from  the  accepted  idea  that  there  is  always 
someone  to  whom  a  woman  is  not  ice.  But  you  have 
never  had  any  school-girl  love  affair,  I  suppose  ?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  "  I  have  never  had  a  lover." 

"And  never  have  dreamed  over  some  handsome  face 
seen  through  the  palings  of  the  school  grounds  ?  No," 
he  added,  as  she  shook  her  head  smilingly,  "  of  course 
not.  If  you  ever  had  had  a  love  affair  you  would  have 
more  patience  with  the  rest  of  mortals.  As  it  is,  you 
have  a  sort  of  fine  contempt  for  our  pitiable  weaknesses. 
There  are  women  like  that  until  the  weakness  touches 
themselves,  and  then " 

A  silence  followed,  broken  by  her  rising  quickly  and 
walking  to  the  window.  For  awhile  she  stood  looking 
out  into  the  gas-lit  street  below,  where  the  crowds  were 
hurrying  to  and  fro  through  the  white  flakes  that  were 
falling  fast.  She  drew  her  fingers  across  her  forehead 
in  a  perplexed  way,  and  then,  closing  the  curtains  again, 
came  back  and  stood  beside  him,  her  hands  clasped 
loosely  before  her. 

"Mr.  Lawrence,"  she  said,  as  a  child  might  say  it,  just 
so  uncertain  of  her  theme  or  words  to  use,  "what  is  it  ? 
/  don't  know.  I  try  to  do  what  I  think  you  want  me  to, 
always ;  but  J  know  you  are  not  satisfied  with  me.  If, 
instead  of  speaking  in  that  sarcastic  way,  you  would  tell 
me  plainly  my  deficiencies,  I  would  try  to  remedy  them  ; 
I  would  indeed,  for  I  always  want  you  to  know  I  am  not 
ungrateful  for  all  you  have  done.  Please  tell  me  what 
you  want  me  to  do  and  be." 

He  looked  at  her  standing  there,  and  did  not  fail  to 
note  that  even  in  her  earnestness  she  never  unclasped 
her  hands  to  reach  them  toward  him — did  not  even  let 
them  touch  the  chair  he  sat  in. 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  85 

"My  dear  Merze,"  he  said,  smiling  up  into  her  serious 
eyes,  "  there  are  some  things  a  man  can't  teach  his  wife 
without  a  loss  to  his  own  vanity.  My  vanity  is  very  dear 
to  me  ;  let  it  rest  in  peace." 

"  Oh!"  she  burst  out,  dropping  into  the  chair.  "  That 
is  always  the  way  !  Why  can't  you  be  serious  ?  I  am  in 
earnest.  Why  don't  you  tell  me  ?'* 

"Because  I  can't,"  he  said,  dropping  his  light  tone 
and  looking  at  her  earnestly.  "  It  would  be  of  no  use. 
If  your  own  heart  does  not  tell  you,  I  could  not  make 
you  understand.  Sometime  you  may,  but  it  will  be  some- 
one else  who  will  teach  you.  Now  don't  get  huffy,"  as 
she  threw  up  her  head  with  an  angry  movement.  "  It  is 
the  truth  ;  three  months  as  your  husband  has  taught  me 
that." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  'someone  else  '  ?" 

"  Never  mind  what  I  mean,  my  dear.  If  the  time  ever 
comes  you  will  know  what  I  mean.  But  in  the  mean- 
time, don't  glare  at  me  like  a  Medusa.  There  is  no 
reason  why  we  shouldn't  be  good  friends,  though  you 
have  not  found  out  what  it  is  to  be  in  love  with  your 
husband.  Never  mind  ;  I  am  philosopher  enough  to 
know  you  can't  help  it  ;  so  let's  drop  the  subject,  and — 
come  give  me  a  kiss — a  something,  by  the  way,  with 
which  you  have  never  favored  me  except  at  my  request." 

She  came  over  to  him  and  stooped  to  touch  his  lips, 
but  the  square  set  of  the  jaws  told  him  her  teeth  were 
locked  closely. 

He  looked  at  her  half  compassionately,  and  then  laid 
his  hand  over  hers. 

"  By  heavens,  it's  a  shame  !"  he  muttered  ;  "  but  I 
don't  see  any  clear  way  out  of  it.  Go  away  !  leave  me 
alone,  and  go  to  your  room." 


86  MERZE  : 

She  looked  a  little  startled  at  the  brusque  tones  co 
foreign  to  him,  but  turned  without  question  and  left  him 
there.  He  watched  the  graceful  form  until  the  door 
closed  between  them,  then  he  flung  the  half-consumed 
cigar  into  the  fire  with  an  imprecation. 

"  Curse  the  luck  !"  he  muttered.  "  How  was  I  to  know 
it  would  be  like  this  ?  How  was  I  to  know  she  would 
not  be  like  others  ?  Any  other  woman — but  pshaw  !"  he 
continued,  stalking  back  and  forth  over  the  soundless 
floor,  with  apparent  disgust  at  his  own  thoughts, 
"  pshaw  !  why  should  she,  after  all  ?  As  well  ask  myself 
why  her  young  beauty  cannot  draw  me  to  her — cannot 
even  erase  the  memory  of  a  face  with  not  half  her  loveli- 
ness. I  was  a  fool  to  dream  that  it  might,"  and  then  he 
dropped  into  a  chair  before  the  fire,  out  of  patience  with 
his  lot  and  the  luck  which  had  driven  him  to  it.  "  But  I 
could  not  help  it,"  he  continued ;  "  there  was  nothing 
else  to  be  done.  And  how  beautiful  she  is  !  By  Jove  ! 
if  she  could  only  be  brought  to  look  on  things  in  a  sens- 
ible light,  what  assistance  her  face  and  accomplishments 
might  be !  But  how  would  she  take  it  ?  Bad,  I  am 
afraid.  Still,  who  knows?  she  is  Jack's  daughter." 

Merze  sat  in  the  dusk  of  her  own  room,  thinking  as 
deeply,  though  more  quietly  than  Lawrence.  She  had 
thought  so  much,  so  very  much,  since  her  marriage  that 
the  fits  of  wild,  impotent  rebellion  had  well-nigh  passed 
away. 

"  Of  what  use  was  it  ?"  she  asked  herself,  wearily,  "  of 
what  use  ?"  She  was  his  wife,  nothing  could  alter  that, 
she  supposed;  but,  oh,  how  she  hated  the  title  !  and  this 
thing  of  dread  called  marriage,  sanctified  by  the  church, 
linked  by  the  words  of  poets  to  that  dreamed-of  love  ! 
The  dawn  often  crept  into  her  window  finding  there 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  87 

a  woman  with  open  eyes,  sleepless  through  a  horror  of 
her  life,  with  a  dread  of  the  days  she  had  yet  to  live 
through,  and  thinking  of  that  other  soul  to  whom  she 
was  linked  irrevocably.  If  she  could  only  go  away  by 
herself  and  work — do  anything  to  erase  the  memory  of 
the  past  three  months  !  But  she  could  not  tell  him  that. 
Had  he  been  less  kind  and  thoughtful  of  her  welfare 
it  would  have  been  easier  ;  as  it  was,  she  knew  the 
fault  was  not  his,  but  hers — her  own  nature  which  she 
had  tried  to  govern  in  vain.  She  wondered  if  to  all 
women  came  this  bitter  rebellion  at  their  lot,  and  if  so, 
how  they  lived  on  and  on. 

She  was  as  one  who  had  walked  all  her  life  through 
cool,  shady  paths,  with  sweet  conceits  and  pure  thoughts 
for  her  companions.  In  one  day  the  fancies  so  dear  to 
her  were  dispelled.  Under  her  feet  were  bare,  hard 
stones,  about  her  the  hot,  dry  winds,  and  overhead  a 
burning,  brassy  sky  that  seemed  to  absorb  all  moisture 
of  soil  and  air  and  all  sweetness  of  the  years  to  come. 

Yet  she  did  not  dislike  him.  She  was  grateful  for 
every  kindness,  and  tried  so  hard  to  be  different  toward 
him,  for  she  felt  that  his  care  of  her  deserved  more  of  a 
return  than  she  could  make,  and  the  sense  of  her  failure 
filled  her  with  an  intense  dissatisfaction  with  herself  that 
left  her  moody  and  cold. 

None  now  could  compare  her  to  the  tiger  lilies,  for  the 
charm  of  fire  and  sparkle,  of  girlish  independence,  was 
gone — buried  under  the  shadow  of  a  wedding  ring. 

"Ah!"  she  thought,  with  an  indrawn  shiver  that  was 
half  a  sob,  "  if  only  it  could  have  been  different !  If  only 
dada  had  not  clasped  our  hands  that  night,  I  could  have 
gone  away  alone  and  clone  something;  I  don't  know  what 
— I  can't  even  think  now  !  I  had  so  many  half-formed 


88  MERZE : 

plans  of  what  I  would  make  my  life  ;  so  many  vague 
ambitions  ;  and  now  they  seem  as  if  they  had  been  the 
fancies  of  someone  else.  They  have  died  out  of  my  life — 
the  life  that  has  become  hateful  to  me  and  is  of  no  use 
to  anyone  else!" 

If  only  she  had  seemed  of  any  use  she  would  not  have 
felt  so  empty-handed ;  if  she  could  have  helped  him  in 
any  way,  done  anything  to  make  amends  for  the  aversion 
she  felt  at  their  relations.  But  there  seemed  nothing. 
They  lived  in  a  hotel,  so  there  were  no  home  cares  to 
attend  to.  When  she  had  asked  to  write  his  letters  or 
assist  him  in  any  way,  he  had  replied  that  his  corres- 
pondence was  generally  of  too  private  a  nature  to  bear 
the  inspection  of  a  wife,  and  there  the  subject  dropped. 

She  wondered  much  as  to  the  nature  of  the  corres- 
pondence and  the  business  to  which  it  referred.  She 
knew  he  went  to  many  cities.  Often  he  was  away  all  night, 
and  sometimes  for  several  days  ;  and  she  fancied  he 
must  be  wealthy  to  live  in  such  fine  rooms,  and  afford 
the  handsome  dresses  he  had  insisted  on  purchasing  her. 
She  demurred  at  the  extravagance  at  first,  but  he  had 
said:  "  Never  mind  ;  it's  no  more  for  you  than  for  myself. 
If  I  must  have  a  woman  around  me,  she  must  look  pre- 
sentable ;  so  take  all  you  can  get,  my  dear,  for  luck  makes 
sudden  changes  sometimes." 

She  had  broached  the  subject  of  his  income,  but  he 
had  evaded  answering,  and,  regarding  his  family,  he  had 
said  :  "  I  have  no  one,  no  living  relative  save  one  cousin, 
an  old  man  now.  So  you  and  I  are  entirely  without 
family,  responsible  to  none,  lords  of  ourselves  in  all 
things." 

They  had  remained  in  Baltimore  for  three  months. 
The  hotel  life  was  new  to  Merze,  with  the  crowds  of 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  89 

ever-changing  faces,  many  of  which  turned  admiringly 
toward  the  quiet,  distinguished-looking  girl  with  the 
wide  gray  eyes  and  the  face  too  cold  for  her  years. 

Often  he  had  spoken  to  her  in  that  sarcastic  way  which 
she  felt  had  in  it  an  element  of  dissatisfaction  with  her- 
self, but  never  so  plainly  as  to-night.  Evidently  some- 
thing had  put  him  out  of  his  usual  smooth  temper.  A 
light  tap  at  her  door  was  followed  by  his  entrance. 

"  Merze,"  he  said,  stopping  in  the  doorway,  not  seeing 
her  for  the  darkness  of  the  room. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  ;  "  I  will  be  there  at  once." 

He  did  not  heed  the  half-expressed  protest  against  his 
entrance,  but  came  over  in  the  direction  of  her  voice. 

"Are  you  here  ?"  he  asked,  groping  with  outstretched 
hands  until  he  touched  her  chair,  then  her  shoulder. 
"  And  all  in  darkness  ?  Come,  don't  sulk  because  I  was 
a  bit  rough  ;  no  doubt  you  think  me  a  brute,  anyway. 
Wives  generally  feel  so  toward  husbands  they  have  no 
love  for."  He  could  feel  her  shrink  and  draw  away 
under  his  touch  and  his  words.  "Well,  well,  we  won't 
speak  of  that,  though  if  you  are  willing  to  look  at  it  in  a 
sensible  light  we  may  come  to  a  compromise  on  this 
question  of  relationship  ;  so  try  and  find  your  tongue.  I 
want  to  talk  business  with  you." 

She  rose  and  lit  the  gas,  flooding  all  the  room  in  a 
light  that  dazzled  after  the  darkness. 

"  What  is  it?"  she  asked,  turning  to  him. 

He  started  as  if  to  speak,  and  then  stopped.  Was  there 
something  in  the  girl's  face  that  checked  him  in  the 
thing  which  he  felt  would  be  a  shame  to  them  both  ? 
She  was  looking  at  him  questioningly,  with  eyes  tired  as 
if  by  weight  of  unshed  tears.  Something  in  them  caused 
the  blue,  keen  eyes  to  drop  and  wander  from  her  gaze. 


90  MERZE : 

"Well,  never  mind,"  he  answered.  "Some  other  time 
will  do  ;  you  don't  look  well  or  very  bright,  so  we  won't 
bother  about  it  now.  Put  on  your  things  and  we'll  go  to 
the  theatre;  that  is  always  a  treat  to  you  ;  so  come  along." 
His  tone  was  rather  brusque,  but  under  it  Merze  detected 
a  something  the  brusqueness  was  meant  to  hide. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked.  "You  are  annoyed  or 
worried.  Is  it  about  me  ?  Can  I  help  you  ?" 

"Would  you  if  you  could  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  would,  I  promise  you  that,"  she  answered, 
wondering  a  little  at  the  curious,  searching  look  in  his 
eyes,  as  if  he  were  measuring  her. 

"  You  promise  me,"  he  repeated,  looking  at  her  closely. 
"  But  how  much  of  a  test  will  your  promise  stand  ?" 

"You  should  know  something  of  that,"  she  remarked, 
coldly.  "  You  should  remember  promises  of  four  years 
ago  that  have  never  been  broken,  though  it  was  little 
more  than  a  child  who  made  them." 

"You're  right,  Merze,"  he  said,  decidedly;  "you  have 
kept  your  promise.  Well,  we'll  speak  of  this  other  affair 
again,  and  see  how  much  your  later  promises  will 
amount  to." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"  So  this  is  what  you  want  ?" 

It  was  three  hours  later.  She  stood  before  him,  her 
cloak  dropped  at  her  feet,  the  light  flashing  on  the  purple 
dress  she  had  worn  to  the  theatre,  and  in  which  she 
looked  more  an  Antigone  than  ever,  as  she  stood  there, 
pale,  contemptuous,  decided. 

For  once  their  places  were  reversed.    He  had  attempted 


THE   STORY    OF   AN    ACTRESS.  91 

the  old  careless  bravado,  but  the  clear  scorn  in  her  eyes 
made  him  drop  his  own. 

"  Come,  come,  Merze  !  Don't  go  into  tragedy.  You 
look  as  if  you  should  be  doing  that  sort  of  thing,  but  it 
is  very  uncomfortable  in  a  domestic  circle.  Drop  it,  and 
look  at  this  in  a  sensible  light.  It  is  only  what  plenty  of 
women  have  done.  You  have  everything  in  your  favor, 
and  neither  of  us  has  family  connections  to  consider.  It 
means  money  to  us  both — plenty  of  it,  perhaps,  in  time  ; 
enough  to  keep  up  two  houses  so  that  we  could  live  in 
comfort  apart.  Surely  that  should  be  an  inducement !" 
he  added,  half  bitterly. 

She  threw  out  her  hand  impetuously. 

"No  need  to  bring  that  question  up,"  she  broke  in. 
"  I  will  try  to  do  my  duty  so  far  as  I  know  it.  If  our  lives 
are  to  be  lived  out  together,  I  will  try  to  make  yours 
contented.  But  this  thing  you  have  proposed  is  one  I 
must  judge  for  myself.  I  would  beg  in  the  streets  rather 
than  be  the  cause  of  such  misery  as  I  have  seen  in  my 
own  home.  It  is  a  waste  of  words.  I  will  not  do  it." 

He  looked  at  her  doggedly,  yet  in  half  admiration  for 
all.  It  was  the  first  time  since  their  marriage  that  he  had 
seen  anything  but  a  passively  cold  creature  in  her.  He 
had  hoped  for  some  change  ;  yet,  now  that  it  had  come, 
anger  against  her  had  come  with  it. 

"  The  business  was  good  enough  for  your  father  and 
mother,"  he  said,  coolly ;  "  I  don't  see  why  you  should 
object  to  it  in  a  husband." 

"  You  have  no  right  to  mention  my  mother's  name  in 
this,"  she  said,  her  voice  a  little  tremulous.  "  She  may 
have  been  passive  in  the  matter  ;  she  never  was  very 
strong  ;  but  I  know  she  never  aided  in  it,  never  lured  poor 
fools  on  to  lose  their  money,  as  you  would  have  me  do." 


92  MERZE : 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  Merze  !  No  need  to  put  it  like  that. 
You  need  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  games  ;  all  I  ask 
is  help  to  make  the  house  pleasant  to  my  friends.  I  don't 
want  a  place  with  the  reputation  of  a  gambling-house  ; 
that  frightens  the  sort  I  want.  But  in  Washington,  with 
my  experience  and  a  woman  as  clever  and  charming  as 
you  can  be  if  you  choose,  we  could  establish  a  salon  that 
would  make  our  fortunes." 

"Yes,  with  a  curse  on  every  dollar." 

"Well,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  complacently,  "the 
curses  seem  to  have  agreed  with  you  for  the  past  four 
years." 

"You  mean "  she  began,  and  then  sat  down  help- 
lessly, as  she  saw  she  had  guessed  the  truth. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  decidedly,  as  if  glad  to  have  it 
over  with.  "  I  mean  just  that.  It  is  the  only  profession 
I  have,  so  you  may  as  well  get  used  to  it  first  as  last. 
You  lived  so  the  most  of  your  life  ;  no  need  to  take  on 
this  air  now." 

"  If  I  have,  it  was  when  too  young  to  help  myself  or 
when  I  did  not  know  ;  but  I  could  never  live  so  again — 
never  !" 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  will,"  he  said  easily,  coming  over  to 
her.  "  Women  are  always  glad  to  have  luxuries  about 
them,  without  asking  their  source." 

"  Not  those  who  have  memories  of  a  childhood  such  as 
mine,"  she  replied,  as  her  thoughts  went  back  to  that 
scene  in  Jack's  room  long  ago.  And  again  she  seemed 
to  see  the  white,  set  face  of  that  boy  from  the  Alle- 
ghenies;  again  the  anguish  of  his  broken  whispers 
came  to  her  ears  ;  and,  as  Lawrence  laid  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder,  she  sprung  from  under  it  as  if  it  had  been  a 
snake. 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  93 

"  Don't  touch  me  ;  don't  come  near  me  !"  she  panted. 
"  Not  now,  at  least.  Wait — wait  until  I  can  think  !" 

She  was  walking  back  and  forth,  clasping  and  unclasp- 
ing her  hands  despairingly.  He,  watching  her  moodily, 
noted  the  flash  of  a  ring  on  one  slim  finger — the  old 
opal  in  its  circle  of  brilliants.  As  he  saw  it  there  came 
to  him  the  memory  of  that  day  when  it  was  placed  there 
— the  day  Jack  saved  his  life  and  gave  Merze  into  his 
charge,  and,  looking  at  it,  the  bitterness  died  out  of  his 
face. 

"  Poor,  unlucky  devil  of  a  Jack,"  he  thought ;  "  and 
poor  girl,  who  has  tried  so  hard  to  be  a  wife  !" 

"Come,  Merze!"  he  said  at  last,  rather  brusquely; 
"  don't  take  it  so  hard,  and,  for  heaven's  sake 
don't  look  at  me  with  eyes  like  that !  We'll  drop  the 
subject  if  you  say  so.  You  are  not  suited  either  to  the 
life  or  myself.  Well,  you  can  bid  good-bye  to  both  in  the 
future.  There  !  I  don't  think  I  am  such  a  bad  husband 
since  I  try  to  do  that  much.  You  should  credit  me  with 
that,  at  least." 

"  I  do,  indeed  I  do,"  she  said,  stopping  In  her  walk, 
though  not  exactly  catching  his  meaning  ;  "  and  I  have 
never  disliked  you.  I  have  always  been  grateful  for 

your  care  and  kindness.     I  like  you,  if  only 1  did  not 

have  to  be  married." 

"Well,  rest  easy,"  he  answered,  bitterly,  rising  and 
going  over  to  the  window  ;  "  you  need  be  married  no 
longer.  You  are  free,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned." 

"Free!"  She  sat  down,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands.  She  felt  like  a  bird  that  had  beaten  against  its 
bars  until  one  had  given  way  and  let  it  outside  the  cage. 
But  with  the  suddenness  of  the  freedom  there  came  a 
sense  of  loss  that  could  not  be  defined.  The  world  was 


94  MERZE : 

before  her  ;  but  in  what  corner  of  it  was  she  to  live  and 
work?  She  had  as  little  knowledge  of  it  as  the  bird 
would  have— the  bird  that  dies  when  freed  from  the 
hated  cage. 

"Yes,  free.  After  to-night  we  could  not  live  together 
as  we  have  done.  In  your  dislike  for  my  work  you  have 
shown  more  dislike  for  me  personally  than  you  intended 
to,  perhaps,  and " 

"  I  am  sorry.    I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you  that  way " 

"  There !  Never  mind  what  you  meant ;  I  am  not 
thin-skinned.  If  I  were  a  younger  man  I  might  be  in 
such  a  case  ;  but,  as  it  is,  the  time  for  that  is  past  with 
me." 

He  sat  silent  after  that,  looking  in  the  fire,  and  she, 
watching  him,  could  say  nothing. 

Was  there  a  half  regret  in  his  voice  for  the  youth  that 
was  gone  ?  It  sounded  so  to  Merze.  He  had  never 
seemed  to  her  as  anything  but  a  young  man.  A  certain 
youthful  jauntiness  made  people  forget  his  years.  But, 
looking  at  him  with  his  words  still  in  her  ears,  she  saw 
that  he  told  the  truth  when  he  said  his  youth  was  gone, 
and  she  felt,  in  some  way,  that  his  happiness  had  gone 
with  it.  Perhaps — perhaps  she  had  been  selfish  in  not 
thinking  of  that.  She  rose,  and  came  close  to  his  chair. 
His  eyes  were  gazing  steadily  into  the  red  mass,  but  she 
could  see  that  they  were  unconscious  that  the  fire  was 
there. 

"  Mr.  Lawrence,"  she  began,  laying  her  hand  on  his 
arm,  as  he  looked  up  at  her  and  then  dropped  his  eyes  to 
her  hand — a  pretty  hand.  He  raised  it  in  his  own  and 
let  it  fall  at  her  side. 

"  There,  my  girl,  you  need  do  penance  no  longer.  I 
never  knew  until  to-night  how  severe  it  has  been  for  you. 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  95 

Many  women  get  accustomed  to  married  lives  without 
love.  You  are  not  one  of  that  kind,  unluckily  for  us 
both.  But  that  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not  be  on 
good  terms,  if  the  disgust  for  my  work  does  not  extend 
to  myself.  I  am  too  old  to  change  that  now." 

"  That  is  what  I  wanted  to  speak  of,"  she  said,  her  voice 
still  tremulous  from  excitement  and  anxiety.  "  Please 
don't  be  vexed  with  me.  I  can't  help  the  way  I  felt 
when  you  wanted  me  to  help  in  the — with  your  work. 
You  have  done  it  always,  and  don't  feel  about  .it  as  I  do. 
But  I  could  live  no  longer  on  money  earned  so." 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  how  we  can  change  that.  You  are 
free,  if  you  choose;  but  you  must  be  taken  care  of.  The 
promise  to  do  so  was  not  given  to  you  alone,  but  to 
Jack." 

'•Yes,  I  know  ;  but — can't  I,  some  way — won't  you  let 
me  take  care  of  myself  ?" 

He  smiled  sarcastically  at  the  disjointed  words. 

"  You  are  so  anxious  to  break  all  bonds  between  us, 
eh  ?  How  soon  will  you  want  a  divorce  ?" 

"  Never  !"  she  said,  looking  at  him  steadily,  with  the 
earnestness  of  youth's  innocence  in  her  eyes.  "  I  want 
to  do  something  for  myself,  some  work;  but  I  know  so 
little  of  what  to  do.  I  don't  like  your  profession,  but  I 
always  have  been,  I  always  will  be,  grateful  for  your 
friendship.  If  there  were  a  divorce,  that  would  mean 
never  to  see  or  know  each  other,  wouldn't  it  ?  I  would 
not  want  that.  I  would  want  you  always  to  be  my  first 
friend." 

"Your  first  friend  ?"  he  repeated.  "  How  long  would 
I  remain  so  ?  Until  some  lover  comes,  perhaps.  That 
is  always  a  woman's  first  friend,  though  it  may  not  be  the 
best." 


96  MERZE : 

"  I  don't  want  a  lover,  ever  !"  she  said  decidedly,  im- 
patiently. She  could  see  nothing  of  sweetness  or  bright- 
ness in  this  thing  which  she  fancied  lived  only  in  the 
imagination  of  poets.  She  was  as  yet  color-blind  to  the 
passions.  "I  want  no  lover.  Husbands  should  not 
speak  of  lovers  to  their  wives,  and  I  will  be  your  wife  and 
your  friend  just  the  same,  though  we  do  live  apart." 

He  smiled  as  he  heard  her,  this  man  who  had  known 
women  so  well,  and  who  knew,  though  love  had  never 
touched  her,  it  would  come  as  surely  as  the  level  sea 
swells  moonwards  ;  and,  perhaps — perhaps  it  might  not 
bring  happiness  into  her  life.  If  any  harm  should  come 
to  her  through  being  left  to  herself  he  would  feel  regret. 
She  was  Jack's  daughter,  and,  after  all,  had  done  her 
best  as  well  as  she  knew.  She  was  not  the  sort  to  be  of 
use  in  the  way  he  had  hoped.  Still,  that  need  not  affect 
his  friendship  for  her. 

He  was  unscrupulous  in  many  ways  ;  his  life  and  work 
had  made  him  so.  But  back  of  it  was  a  vein  of  justice 
that  told  him  the  girl  was  right  in  her  decision,  and  that 
also  held  him  to  his  trust  regarding  her. 

If  it  had  been  a  woman  he  loved,  he  would  not  have 
looked  on  it  in  the  same  light.  There  could  have  been 
no  thought  of  platonic  friendship  for  her  after  knowing 
how  distasteful  the  marriage  with  him  was.  But  there 
had  been  no  love — only  a  sort  of  an  idea  that  it  would 
be  all  right  anyway  ;  that  idea  had  been  speedily  dis- 
pelled, and  he  felt  it  was  best  to  be  ended.  So  he 
thought,  sitting  there  silent,  and  the  girl  opposite  as  still 
as  himself. 

It  had  all  been  said.  They  were  never  again  to  be  the 
same,  and  the  sense  of  the  change  had  dropped  over  them 
both  like  a  veil  through  which  they  could  not  see  their 


THE   STORY    OF   AN    ACTRESS.  97 

way  into  the  future.  It  seemed  a  pity,  all  of  it — from  the 
first,  a  pity.  And,  looking  across  at  the  drooping,  girlish 
form,  that  seemed  too  slight  as  yet  to  bear  its  burden 
alone,  a  moisture  crept  into  his  keen  eyes.  Was  it 
altogether  for  this  woman,  or  was  it  the  memory  of  a 
scene  like  this  that  he  had  shared  in  years  agone? — 
a  woman  almost  as  young,  and  so  burdened  with  a  love- 
less union  that,  in  the  glow  of  a  red  firelight,  they  had 
spoken  words  that  changed  their  lives  for  all  time — des- 
pairing, love-freighted  words,  with  a  sense  of  guilt  in 
them.  And  after  it  had  all  been  said — all  the  passion  that 
had  been  growing  in  their  hearts  until  it  crept  to  their 
lips — then  they  had  sat  silent,  just  so,  with  faltering  hearts 
and  tongues  grown  dumb. 

As  the  likeness  to  the  scene  crept  into  his  thoughts  he 
brushed  back  his  hair  from  his  forehead  as  if  to  throw  off 
some  weight  of  memory. 

"  Her  life  shall  never  be  like  that,  if  I  can  help  it,"  he 
thought;  and  then  he  turned  to  her,  his  voice  sounding 
strange  after  that  throbbing  silence  as  he  said: 

"Come,  Merze,  don't  sit  there.  Go  to  bed.  I  am 
going  away  to-night,  and  will  try  and  be  back  to-morrow. 
Then  we  can  speak  further  of  this  question  of  living 
apart;  but  you  must  remain  here  until  I  have  time  to  look 
around.  Now,  go  to  bed.  This  will  all  come  straight; 
don't  fret." 

"  Very  well,"  she  answered,  rising  to  go  to  her  room. 
At  the  door  she  paused  irresolutely.  He  stood  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  his  hands  in  his  pockets  in  a  non- 
chalant fashion,  not  looking  at  her.  She  turned  and 
touched  his  arm. 

"  Good-night,  and — and — thank  you." 

He  looked  into  her  eyes  that  lowered  before  his  own. 
7 


98  MERZE : 

Since  their  relations  had  been  severed  she  had  twice 
touched  him  voluntarily  with  her  hand,  an  act  rare  enough 
to  attract  his  notice  ;  but  he  understood  well  that  it  was 
only  through  a  gratitude  that  was  half  remorseful. 

"  Good-night,  my  girl.  Don't  worry;  don't  have  any 
regrets.  We  will  start  on  a  different  footing  now,  and  it 
may  come  all  right  for  you  in  the  end.  I  hope  so. 
Good-night. " 

CHAPTER  XII. 

When  Merze  awoke  next  morning  it  was  with  a 
startled  feeling  that  something  had  happened — what  was 
it  ?  There  was  a  white  glare  in  the  room  from  the  sun 
that  was  shining  on  the  snow,  fallen  the  night  before, 
and  her  window-curtains  were  apart,  letting  in  the  flood 
.  of  light. 

That  seemed  strange.  Mr.  Lawrence  was  always 
careful  to  close  the  curtains  because  of  draughts  ;  and 
then,  like  a  flash,  came  the  remembrance  of  the  night 
before. 

She  was  alone.  With  the  night  had  passed  away  the 
old  life.  Was  the  white,  pure  light  of  morning  a  symbol 
of  what  the  future  was  to  be  ?  She  was  not  a  praying 
woman — too  many  doubts  and  different  theories  had 
obscured  the  vision  of  the  soul ;  but  she  clasped  her 
hands  close  over  her  eyes  and  wished  that  it  might  be  so. 

Into  her  thoughts  came  the  memory  of  her  husband's 
face  as  she  had  seen  it  on  bidding  him  good-night. 
Kind  it  had  been,  and  considerate  he  surely  had  proven 
himself,  despite  that  proposition  about  the  gambling- 
house.  That,  of  course,  was  shameful  ;  and  with  the 
memory  came  bitter  thoughts  against  him.  She  had 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  99 

felt  that  she  hated  him  when  he  spoke  of  it  to  her — his 
wife !  And  yet  he  had  not  seemed  to  think  of  it  as  a 
crime ;  he  said  other  women  had  done  it ;  but  she  felt 
that  it  must  have  been  women  who  had  that  thing  which 
they  called  "  love  "  for  their  husbands,  and  it  had  blinded 
them  to  all  else. 

To  him  it  was  a  profession  the  same  as  any  other.  Cus- 
tom had  given  him  a  sort  of  pride  in  his  skill.  He  had 
no  idea  of  the  way  it  would  impress  her,  and  her  scorn  and 
contempt  had  stung  him  into  some  rough  speeches  that 
were  very  unlike  his  usual  manner ;  but  it  had  only  been 
for  a  few  moments,  and  then  he  had  been  most  kind. 
She  remembered  it  all  as  she  lay  there,  and  the  kindness 
remained  uppermost  in  her  thoughts,  and  made  her  feel 
half  guilty  at  her  happy  sense  of  freedom. 

She  wondered  what  he  meant  to  do.  With  the  knowl- 
edge that  she  was  to  be  free,  there  had  come  back  with 
a  rush  the  old  girlish  dreams  of  a  life  to  be  carved  out 
for  herself — a  life  in  which  marriage  was  to  form  no 
part — for  where  it  came  everything  beautiful  in  life  was 
marred  in  her  eyes.  But  in  what  path  was  her  life-walk 
to  be? 

She  sat  up  in  bed,  taking  stock  of  herself  as  it  were. 
In  the  school  she  had  been  considered  very  clever,  and 
she  knew  she  was  well  qualified  for  teaching,  if  that  met 
her  liking.  But  it  did  not ;  the  routine  would  drive  her 
desperate.  She  could  sing  well  ;  but  felt  she  was  not 
thorough  musician  enough  to  turn  that  to  account  as  a 
profession,  and  to  complete  her  musical  education  would 
take  more  money  than  she  could  accept  now.  She  had 
aptitude  as  an  artist,  and  had  done  some  of  the  best 
work  in  the  school ;  but  she  smiled  to  herself  at  the 
thought  of  competing  with  acknowledged  artists.  She 


100  MERZE  : 

knew  she  possessed  taste  ;  but  felt  that  talent  was  want- 
ing—such talent  as  was  necessary  to  decided  success,  and 
in  whatever  direction  her  work  lay  she  could  not  be 
content  with  mediocrity.  So  she  thought  in  her  ignorant 
girl's  heart,  that  had  so  little  knowledge  of  the  hardships 
in  a  profession  even  with  genius  to  lend  aid. 

What  was  there  left  her  in  an  ideal  profession  ?  for  it 
must  be  that.  What  was  it  he  had  said  she  was  fitted 
for  last  night  ?  Tragedy— the  stage !  A  mirror  was 
opposite  ;  she  looked  at  the  reflection  long  and  steadily, 
picked  out  her  good  and  bad  points  critically.  Her  voice 
had  been  praised  as  one  admirably  suited  to  elocution. 
She  had  played  no  parts  even  in  amateur  clubs,  but  her 
dramatic  reading  had  been  rather  startling  to  the  young 
ladies  who  invariably  chose  some  of  the  milder  things  of 
Tennyson  when  the  day  for  reading  came.  And  now, 
if  it  could  be  so,  why  not  ? 

Her  blood  glowed  at  the  thought  of  it.  Surely,  surely 
she  could  do  it.  She  felt  as  if  no  work  would  be  too 
great  if  in  the  end  she  could  only  win  success.  There 
came  thronging  quick  into  her  mind  the  poets,  the 
dramatists,  whose  work  she  loved  and  enjoyed.  Oh,  if 
she  could  only  feel  herself  worthy  to  interpret  them  ! 
That  surely  would  be  noble  work.  "  Good  "  work  he  would 
have  called  it.  And  the  man  in  her  thoughts  was  her 
oracle  of  the  Turkish  pipe. 

Hurriedly  dressing,  she  picked  up  a  volume  of  dra- 
matic poems,  and  walked  back  and  forth,  reading  aloud 
favorite  portions,  wondering  if  she  could  do  it  well,  re- 
reading some,  and  attempting  to  act  them  to  her  own 
satisfaction.  She  felt  them,  and  the  blood  throbbed 
through  her  veins  in  sympathy  with  the  characters  she 
was  endeavoring  to  render  ;  but  she  knew  her  work  was 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  101 

crude.  She  would  need  someone  to  teach  her  how  to  use 
what  strength  she  had,  for,  as  it  was,  she  dropped  the 
book  and  found  that  she  was  nervous  and  trembling  from 
the  intensity  of  her  own  emotions. 

She  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass  and  laughed  a  little 
as  the  ridiculous  side  of  the  situation  struck  her ;  but 
the  laugh  was  a  half-hysterical  one. 

"  How  silly  I  would  appear  if  anyone  could  see  me  !" 
she  thought ;  "  tears  in  my  eyes  from  Guinevere's  parting 
scene,  and  my  hands  trembling !  How  silly,  and  yet 
how  thankful  I  would  be  if  I  could  only  convey  to  others 
what  I  felt  just  then  !" 

The  morning  was  one  of  suppressed  excitement  to  her; 
and  how  slow  it  was  in  passing !  And  at  last,  when  a 
knock  came  at  her  door,  she  hurried  to  open  it,  her  face 
eager  and  a  little  flushed. 

Lawrence  noticed  it  and  smiled.  "The  brightest  look 
of  welcome  I  have  ever  received  from  you,"  he  remarked, 
seating  himself  leisurely,  and  looking  at  her  as  she  drew 
back  confusedly.  "  Well,  since  I  am  a  discarded  husband, 
I  am  thankful  for  even  small  favors.  Sit  down  ;  why, 
you  are  nervous.  What's  wrong  ?" 

"Nothing,  nothing,"  she  answered,  hastily,  sitting  as 
he  bade  her.  "I  was  reading  aloud,  and  am  a  little 
tired,  perhaps." 

"It  must  have  been  very  interesting  reading,"  he 
commented,  looking  at  her  curiously.  "  Ah  !  '  Guinev- 
ere ' !"  as  he  saw  the  open  volume  ;  "  very  appropriate. 
Only  we  have  no  '  Launcelot'  yet." 

"And  we  will  not  have,"  she  answered,  trying  to 
speak  lightly.  "  Don't  be  sarcastic.  Tell  me  the  result 
of  your  journey." 

"  How  flattering  your  interest !     There,  there !"  as  she 


102  MERZE  : 

tapped  her  foot  impatiently.  "We  will  talk  business 
then.  My  journey  has  not  been  a  long  one  ;  only  down 
across  the  Virginia  line.  How  would  you  like  to  live  in 
the  country  for  awhile  ?' 

"In  the  country,  where  ?" 

"In  Virginia.  I  have  a  half-interest  in  an  old  place 
there  which  was  left  to  my  cousin  and  myself,  but  has 
never  been  divided  yet,  and  none  of  us  has  lived  there 
since  my  grandfather's  death.  I  telegraphed  Mark  last 
night  that  I  might  want  to  use  it,  and  he  has  replied 
that  it  is  at  my  service  ;  but  I  warn  you  it  will  be  dull." 

"Who  is  Mark?"  She  had  never  heard  him  mention 
the  name  before. 

"A  cousin  of  mine,  Mark  Guarda.  The  remnant  of 
the  plantation  is  jointly  ours,  but  of  course  I  communi- 
cated with  him  before  taking  possession.  Later,  some- 
thing else  may  be  arranged,  but  that  is  the  best  I  can 
do  now." 

"  Will  it  be  much  expense  to  you  ?"  She  was 
so  helpless,  yet  so  afraid  of  adding  any  annoyances 
to  him. 

"  Never  mind  about  that — no,"  he  added,  as  he  saw 
her  look  of  protest ;  "  it  won't  be  as  much  as  your  living 
here.  Two  of  the  old  darkies  take  care  of  the  place, 
and  you  will  be  little  extra  trouble  ;  and  as  to  expense — 
the  place  keeps  itself  up,  so  you  will  have  to  use  none 
of  the  money  that  is  so  distasteful  to  you." 

It  was  a  lie,  but  he  knew  she  would  be  more  contented 
so.  The  old  place  had  been  neglected  so  long,  and 
without  any  resident  master,  that  it  at  times  had  come 
far  short  of  keeping  itself  up. 

'•I  will  go,"  she  answered,  "for  the  present,  at  least ; 
there  are  many  things  I  could  do  in  the  way  of  study 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  103 

while  there,  and  I  want  to  learn  as  quickly  as  possible  to 
work  for  myself  in  some  way.  I  could  work  and  study 
better  there  than  here  in  the  hotel,  much  better." 

"  And  pray,  what  do  you  intend  to  study  ?  I  thought 
you  were  through  school." 

"  I  think  I  would  like  to  learn  something  at  which  I 
could  make  my  own  living.  Don't  laugh  at  the  idea, 
please  ;  but  I  think  I  would  like  to  go  on  the  stage,  to 
be  an  actress,  if  I  could." 

She  was  so  fearful  of  her  ground,  so  afraid  of  his 
ridicule,  that  her  speech  was  very  disjointed,  and  her 
face  flushed  under  his  quizzical  smile. 

"  Well,  really,  my  modest  Merze,  your  ambition  is  not 
a  trifling  one.  You  speak  of  the  stage  with  the  confi- 
dence of  ignorance.  What  made  you  think  of  it  ?" 

"  Is  it  so  foolish  ?"  she  asked,  a  little  crushed.  "  I  was 
all  alone  this  morning,  thinking  what  I  should  do,  and 
all  at  once  it  came  into  my  head  as  if  someone  had  whis- 
pered it  to  me.  You  would  have  been  amused  had  you 
seen  me  walking  back  and  forward,  reading  some  of  those 
dramas  aloud  to  see  if  I  could  do  it  right." 

"  And  how  did  you  succeed  ?" 

"  Not  very  well,  I  am  afraid.     I  got  too  nervous." 

"  Ah  !"  looking  at  her  more  carefully.  "  Nervous  ; 
how  was  that  ?  What  made  you  nervous  ?" 

"  I  don't  know."  she  answered,  weakly.  "  When  I 
think  of  it  now,  I  can't  understand  it.  But  just  then, 
when  I  was  reading  it  and  trying  to  act  it  as  well  as  I 
could,  a  trembling  came  over  me,  a  nervousness  so  I 
could  scarcely  stand.  I  dropped  into  a  chair  and  looked 
at  myself  in  the  mirror  there.  The  tears  were  in  my  eyes 
and  my  heart  was  in  my  throat  for  a  moment.  It  seems 
foolish  now  to  think  of  it,  but  just  then  I  forgot  I  was 


104  MERZE  : 

myself  ;  I  seemed  « Guinevere*.  Does  that  seem  so  silly 
to  you  ?" 

He  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  sat  with  his  eyes  half 
closed,  looking  at  her  ;  then  he  said  :  "  I  am  not  sure,  but 
if  you  will  bring  me  a  cigar  I  will  smoke  and  think  it 
over." 

She  rose  and  moved  over  to  a  stand  where  his  smoking 
set  was  kept.  He  watched  the  graceful  dignity  of  her 
carriage.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  watch  Merze  walk  ;  there 
was  the  freedom  of  the  hills  in  her  gait,  the  unstudied 
grace  of  an  unconscious  woman,  and  his  half-closed  eyes 
noted  every  point  in  feature  and  figure  as  she  came  across 
to  him  all  unknowing  that  the  cigar  was  only  a  ruse  to 
give  him  the  opportunity  to  inspect  her  with  the  idea  of 
this  new  ambition  of  hers  in  his  mind. 

"Light  it  for  me,"  he  said,  and  leaned  back  watching 
her  still  as  she  did  it,  and  laughed  as  she  handed  it  to 
him. 

"Thanks.  You  do  it  cleverly  enough,  but  it  does  not 
suit  your  Greek  features  and  statuesque  figure.  That  sort 
of  thing  needs  a  woman  with  dash  and  sparkle  in  her  to 
make  the  picture  complete.  A  '  Galatea '  you  might  be — 
never  anything  nearer  humanity.  There,  go  away  now. 
Have  the  girl  pack  up  your  things.  I  will  take  you  down 
to  Greyholme  in  the  morning,  and  I  will  think  over  this 
new  ambition  of  yours.  Don't  build  any  air-castles  yet." 

"  But  you  will  help  me  if  you  can — for  dada's  sake  ?" 

"Yes,  I  will  help  you  if  I  can — for  Jack's  sake." 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  105 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Clear,  crisp  air  and  white-sheeted  fields  met  Merze 
as  she  stepped  from  the  car  to  the  little  covered  plat- 
form of  the  flag  station,  with  not  a  house  in  sight. 
Some  of  the  passengers  looked  curiously  at  the  hand- 
some girl  in  brown  traveling-dress  as  she  stood  beside 
her  companion,  gazing  about  with  questioning  eyes  at 
her  surroundings ;  and  then  the  train  puffed  away,  and 
its  inmates  turned  again  to  their  papers,  their  chat,  and 
their  cigars.  As  it  did  so  humanity  made  itself  manifest 
on  the  other  side  of  the  track,  where  a  sleigh  was  drawn 
up,  and  the  driver,  an  old  darky,  was  holding  the 
heads  of  a  pair  of  horses  and  trying  to  shame  one  of 
them  out  of  a  fright. 

"  Whoa,  now  !  Stan'  still,  you  June  !  Ain't  yeh 
'shamed  o'  yerself?  A-tryin'  to  show  off,  ain't  you, 
jest  'cause  Massa  Fred's  come  home  ?  Whoa,  now ! 
Howde,  massa?  I'll  be  dar  in  a  minute.  Have  to  git 
June  coaxed  round  a  little  ;  seems  if  she  nevah  will 
git  used  to  dem  keers.  Yeh  stay  right  whar  yeh  is,  so's 
Miss  won't  git  her  feet  wet.  I'll  bring  'em  round.  Dar, 
now,  June  !  dar  now  !  Massa  Fred's  a-laughen  at  yeh. 
Hain't  yer  got  no  sense  ?  Dar,  now  !  knowed  ye'd  get 
'shamed  o'  yerself.  Good  girl,  good  girl !  Git  around, 
now  ;  dar  yeh  go  ;  whoa  !" 

And  the  sleigh  was  brought  around  with  a  flourish  to 
the  little  platform,  and  the  driver  got  out  nimbly  as 
stiffened  limbs  would  allow,  and  stood,  hat  in  hand,  to 
welcome  the  arrivals. 


106  MERZE  : 

"  Good  morning,  Uncle  Jupe.  Merze,  this  is  one  of 
the  last  relics  of  our  departed  grandeur.  He  has  a  mul- 
titude of  high-sounding  names,  but,  Jupiter  being  the 
shortest  among  them,  we  call  him,  'JuPe>'  "  said  Lawrence, 
while  assisting  her  into  the  sleigh. 

"  Don't  yeh  take  no  'count  o'  the  rest  o'  them  names 
Miss.  I's  ben  'Uncle  Jupe'  to  three gineration  o'  Law- 
rences, an'  I  spect  to  be  so  the  rest  o'  my  days;  an'  mighty 
glad  I  am  to  give  yeh  welcome,  Miss." 

'Thank  you,"  said  Merze,  holding  out  her  hand.  "  I 
shall  expect  you  to  be  '  Uncle  Jupe  '  to  me,  also." 

"  The  Good  Man  bless  yo'  sweet  young  face,  an' 
make  yeh  happy  in  Grayholme,"  and  the  old  mahogany- 
colored  face  was  full  of  earnestness  as  he  spoke.  The 
girl's  frank  manner  had  evidently  won  his  heart.  And 
very  warm  hearts  they  have — those  whose  lives  are 
lived  under  the  curse. 

Two  miles  over  the  snow,  on  which  the  sun  shone 
until  the  earth  seemed  sown  with  diamonds,  glittering, 
flashing,  and  ever  vanishing  to  give  place  to  new  ones. 
The  pair,  husband  and  wife  that  had  been,  sat  silent 
during  the  ride.  What  a  home-coming  !  Was  he  think- 
ing of  it?  Merze  glanced  at  his  non-committal  face, 
but  it  told  nothing. 

On  they  went,  now  out  between  open  fields,  now  under 
drooping  pine  boughs  weighed  down  by  their  snowy 
burden,  until  at  last  they  entered  a  high  old-fashioned 
gate.  And  Merze  looked  eagerly  about  to  see  in  what 
manner  of  place  it  was  that  her  lot  was  cast  for  the  time. 
Very  bare  it  looked,  except  for  the  dark-green  of  the 
pines  that  were  thick  about.  The  network  of  vines  over 
the  rough,  graystone  house  was  leafless,  and  the  choicest 
shrubs  in  front  of  it  were  enveloped  in  straw.  An 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  107 

antique-looking  fanlight  above  the  door  was  made  of 
brass  and  set  with  tiny  slits  of  glass.  The  stone  steps 
were  worn  in  the  centre,  showing  long  use  ;  the  windows 
were  shutterless,  and  sparkled  in  the  sunlight  as  Jupe 
drew  up  with  a  flourish  ;  and  the  door  was  opened  by  a 
neat,  shining-visaged  old  woman,  who  stood  smiling 
broadly  down  on  them. 

"Welcome,  Massa  Fred,  welcome,  Miss,"  she  said,  in 
the  mellow  voice  of  her  race,  as  he  opened  a  door  to  the 
left,  and  Merze  was  led  by  her  husband  into  the  quaint 
old  parlor. 

"  I  bid  you  welcome,  also,"  he  said,  as  he  drew  a  chair 
near  the  blazing  logs  in  the  open  fireplace.  "  Here, 
Rhoda,  take  the  wraps  of  your  mistress.  I  give  her  in 
your  charge  ;  try  and  make  her  comfortable." 

"  I  don't  spect  it'll  be  any  labor  to  do  dat,  Massa  Fred. 
It  do  seem  good  to  have  a  lady  in  the  house  again — 
'specially  a  young  lady.  Bar's  ben  nothin'  but  ole  faces 
an'  ole  voices  in  dese  rooms  for  so  long  dat  a  young  face 
is  mighty  welcome,  I  can  tell  yeh,  Miss." 

"Thank  you,  Rhoda.  I  feel  sure  my  stay  with  you 
will  be  a  contented  one,"  and  the  smile  in  the  girl's  eyes 
was  met  by  an  answering  one  on  the  blackwoman's  face. 
She  would  at  least  have  friends  in  Jupe  and  Rhoda. 
She  looked  around  curiously  at  the  odd  room.  She  had 
lived  in  many  houses,  but  this  was  different  from  any- 
thing she  had  seen.  Age  in  buildings  had  always — 
through  memories  of  her  childhood — been  associated  in 
her  mind  with  ricketiness  and  general  decay  ;  but  this 
was  all  different.  It  surely  was  very  old  ;  but  it  was  a 
polished,  picturesque  old  age,  and  one  that  appealed 
to  the  girl's  love  of  the  quaint.  The  woodwork  was  of 
mahogany,  the  doors  of  plain  panels,  and  the  frames  of 


108  MERZE : 

carved  work  that  was  clumsy  yet  effective  as  the  light 
glanced  over  the  scroll-work,  touching  here  and  there 
the  mimic  grapes  or  the  carved  leaves.  The  floor  was 
of  dark  wood,  with  a  few  rugs  of  faded  hue  and  a  white 
bearskin  before  the  fire.  Shabby  the  furniture  was, 
and  the  darned  damask  of  curtains  and  upholstery  had 
faded  from  maroon  to  brown  tinges ;  but  for  all  that  it 
was  an  impressive  shabbiness — that  of  fallen  kings. 

Lawrence  watched  her  wandering  eyes  as  they  glanced 
from  point  to  point  in  the  old  room. 

"  Well,"  he  remarked  at  last,  "  how  do  you  like  your 
retreat  ?" 

"  It  is  lovely  !"  she  said,  rising  and  going  to  the  win- 
dow. "  I  wonder  you  ever  leave  it  or  neglect  it  as  it 
seems  to  be.  I  should  never  get  tired  looking  at  it  if 
the  other  rooms  are  as  handsome  as  this." 

"They  are  all  old-fashioned  and  queer,  but  this  has  the 
richest  woodwork.  It  was  quite  a  show-place  in  its  day, 
but  its  day  is  long  past.  I  have  no  particular  affection 
for  or  pleasant  memories  of  it.  I  have  not  been  in  it 
since  my  grandfather's  death,  ten  years  ago.  Mark's 
business  keeps  him  in  New  York,  but  he  manages  to 
get  down  once  or  twice  a  year.  He  takes  much  more 
interest  in  it  than  I  do.  I  expect  to  sell  out  to  him 
some  of  these  days." 

Merze  glanced  at  a  few  old  pictures  on  the  walls,  and 
asked  : 

"  Did  your  mother  live  here  ?  You  never  mention 
her." 

"  Because  I  never  knew  her  ;  she  died  before  I  could 
remember.  Yes,  she  lived  here,  and  there  is  a  picture 
of  her  upstairs.  It  and  that  ring  you  wear  are  the  only 
mementos  I  have  of  her.  And,  by  the  way,"  he 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  109 

added,  "  I  would  like  for  you  always  to  wear  the  ring. 
It  is  safer  in  your  hands  than  mine,  for  I  have  pawned 
it  more  than  once  when  I  got  hard  up.  I  might  do 
so  again  and  lose  it.  I  shouldn't  like  that,  so  you 
keep  it. 

Just  then  Rhoda  re-entered,  and  said  to  Merze  : 

"  Yo'  room  is  ready,  Miss,  any  time  yeh  wants  to  go 
to  it.  I  hadn't  much  time  to  'range  it,  but  reckon  it'll 
be  comfortable,  though  the  furnishin*  is  all  gettin' 
mighty  pore-like  o'  late  years,"  she  added,  apologeti- 
cally. 

"  Give  me  a  list  of  what  is  needed,  and  I'll  see  about 
it  to-morrow,"  said  Lawrence. 

"  Laws,  Massa  Fred,  yeh  ain't  a-goin'  back  that  soon  !" 
ejaculated  Rhoda,  with  the  freedom  of  a  privileged 
character. 

"  Yes,  auntie,  I  am  going  back  on  the  next  train  ;  so  I 
have  only  time  to  take  a  lunch  with  you  and  leave  at 
once — there,  there  !"  as  she  began  a  pantomime  of  ex- 
postulation. "  Show  your  mistress  to  her  room,  and  then 
come  back  here  ;  I  want  to  see  you." 

A  pretty  room  it  was,  for  all  Rhoda's  apologies,  that 
Merze  was  shown  to.  Snowy  white  curtains  and  bed- 
furnishing  made  the  place  look  chilly  in  the  clear,  cold 
light  of  the  winter  sun ;  but  the  crackle  of  burning 
wood  drew  her  attention  to  an  irregular  little  alcove,  in 
which  was  a  fireplace  filled  with  blazing  hickory  that 
sent  a  shower  of  sparks  upward  as  Rhoda  assailed  it 
with  a  cumbrous  brass-headed  poker. 

"  Seems  like  it  takes  a  mighty  long  time  to  git  these 
heah  ole  walls  warmed  through.  This  fiah's  ben  a- 
burnin'  since  yisterday.  But  lor  !  it's  the  fust  time  they's 
ben  a  fiah  heah  since  ole  massa  died  ;  an'  as  for  a  lady — 


110  MERZE  ' 

there  wan't  none  in  the  house  fer  a  long  time  afore  that. 
It'll  seem  like  old  times  agin.  Anything  I  can  do  for 
yeh  ?" 

"  Nothing  now,"  answered  Merze.  "  I  will  get  along 
very  well,  and  Mr.  Lawrence  is  waiting  to  see  you." 

"  Yes,  Miss  ;  so  if  yeh'll  'scuse  me  I'll  go  right  along, 
foi  Massa  Fred  nevah  was  easy  to  keep  a-waitin',  even 
when  he  was  a  little  pickaninny.  I's  his  mammy,  and 
has  a  right  to  know  ef  anybody  has.  Yes,  Miss,  I'll  go 
right  along  down,"  and  giving  the  fire  a  parting  punch, 
she  trotted  out  of  the  room  and  down  stairs  to  where 
Lawrence  awaited  her. 

"I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about  Miss  Merze,  Rhoda." 

"  Yes,  Massa  Fred." 

He  walked  back  and  forth  a  couple  of  times  before 
speaking  again,  while  Rhoda  stood  like  a  grotesque  fig- 
ure in  bronze,  with  the  fitful  blaze  of  the  wood  throwing 
gleams  across  her  features  with  Rembrandt-like  effects. 
Finally  he  spoke : 

"  She  will  be  alone  here,  except  for  you  and  Jupe, 
and  will  never  complain  though  there  should  be  dis- 
comforts. I  shall  trust  you  to  let  me  know  anything 
that  is  needed." 

"Yes,  Massa  Fred." 

"  And  I  suppose  I  can  also  trust  you  not  to  talk  too 
much  ?" 

"Yes,  Massa  Fred." 

"  Tell  Jupe  to  have  the  horses  ready  in  an  hour." 

"Yes,  Massa  Fred." 

But  she  did  not  move  toward  the  door  ;  her  eyes  were 
on  his  face  questioningly.  There  was  silence  for  a  little 
while  in  the  quaint  old  room,  and  then  the  blackwoman 
broke  it. 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  Ill 

"Massa  Fred." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  Don't  think  it's  for'ard-like  o'  me,  but  try  an'  'mem- 
ber as  I'myer  ole  mammy.  I  know  as  how  yo'  'countable 
to  none  ;  but  yo'  motha's  pictuah's  up  dar  in  that  room 
whar  young  Miss  is  to  sleep.  It's  de  fus'  time  a  lady  has 
slep  under  this  roof  for  many  a  yeah,  an'  then  it  didn't 
bring  any  blessin'.  Now,  don't  yeh  git  mad  with  old 
Rhody,"  as  he  turned  sharply  on  her.  "  I's  nothin"  but 
a  mis'able,  worn-out  niggah,  an'  yeh  was  only  a  boy  at 
the  time,  so  don't  think  I'm  a-jedgin'  of  yeh  ;  but  yeh 
ain't  no  boy  now,  Massa  Fred,  an'  yeh  jest  say  '  this  am 
Miss  Merze,'  and  that's  all.  Yeh  don't  say  ef  she's  any 
kin,  er  ef  she  isn't,  an'  folks  is  goin'  to  ax  questions  of 
us  niggahs  when  they  see  her  here,  an'  what's  we'uns  to 
say  ?  Yeh've  had  her  put  in  yo'  motha's  room,  Massa 
Fred.  Yeh — yeh  wouldn't  o'done  that  ef  she  was  like 
that  othah." 

"  Silence  !  Never  speak  like  that  again  !"  and  his  face 
was  flushed  with  anger  as  he  turned  to  her. 

"  Now,  Massa  Fred,"  the  old  creature  said,  half- 
chidingly,  half-lovingly,  as  she  used  to  do  when  he  was 
a  child,  "  don't  yeh  be  mad.  It's  only  fer  the  name  I'm 
a-thinkin'.  Ole  massa  is  gone,  an'  the  ole  place  seems 
goin',  an'  it's  all  mighty  pore-like  to  what  it  used  to  be  ; 
but  the  ole  name  is  jest  the  same,  an'  we  niggahs  has 
allers  been  kind  o'  proud  o'  the  ole  name.  Yeh  knows 
dat,  Massa  Fred." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,  auntie,"  he  said,  a  little  touched  at 
this  old  creature's  devotion  to  the  family  honor,  while 
he  himself  scarcely  remembered  he  had  ever  belonged 
to  it.  The  dead  and  gone  Lawrences  were  nothing  to 
him,  while  to  this  black  ex-slave  their  wishes,  their  honor, 


112  MERZE  : 

were  sacred.  "Yes,  you  are  right  in  your  ideas;  but  there 
must  be  no  disrespect  given  her  name,  remember  that. 
As  for  this  other,  your  new  mistress,  rest  easy,  Rhoda, 
on  that  score.  She  is  Mrs.  Lawrence,  and  I  think  will 
bring  no  discredit  to  the  name." 

"Well,  I  tellXj  Massa  Fred,  I's  mightly  glad  to  hear 
it.  A  real  mistress  in  the  house  at  las'  !  It'll  be  ole  times 
ovah  again." 

"Don't  build  up  too  many  hopes.  My  wife  is  to 
live  here  alone  so  long  as  she  stays.  There,  there  ! 
don't  ask  questions.  Get  us  some  lunch,  and  take 
care  of  her." 

"  Yes,  Massa  Fred,  suahly,"  and  she  left  the  room  with 
her  old  face  puzzled  over  the  interview. 

"Can't  und'stan'  all  of  it,"  she  confided  to  the  tea- 
kettle, as  she  took  it  hissing  from  the  hob.  "  Men  is 
curious  creatures,  anyway.  She's  his  wife,  an'  she's  so 
queen-like,  an'  so  han'some,  an'  he's  goin'  away  to  leave 
her  all  lonesome  by  herself.  An'  dar's  that  othah  one, 
as  was  wicked  as  wicked  ;  an'  he  won't  heah  no  word  agin 
her  after  all  these  yeahs.  Well,  dar's  no  'countin'  for 
tastes,  leastways  men's  tastes." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Very  quiet  seemed  the  old  house,  with  only  the  two 
servants,  who  looked  at  Merze  curiously  for  all  their 
kindness.  She  was  so  different  from  any  of  the  Law- 
rence ladies  who  had  been  mistress  there.  She  was  so 
young,  so  charming  in  many  ways,  and  had  only  smiles 
for  them — but  never  gay,  girlish  smiles,  such  as  suit 
young  years.  And  the  eyes,  questioning  as  a  child's, 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  113 

had  yet  the  sadness  in  them  of  a  soul  that  feels  itself 
alone — an  outcast  from  such  happiness  as  she  felt  came 
to  other  lives.  In  her  own  life  there  could  be  only  the 
content  of  work  well  done.  That  was  all  she  dared 
dream  of ;  and  of  that  she  did  dream,  and  build  airy 
fabrics  of  beauty  through  the  winter  days  that  were  far 
from  idle.  She  read  aloud  much,  conning  over  and 
over  poems  suited  to  elocution,  working  day  after  day 
at  the  most  difficult,  trying  to  school  her  voice  to  forci- 
ble, yet  natural,  delivery.  She  was  working  partially  in 
the  dark,  not  at  all  sure  that  her  school  training  would 
be  applicable  to  this  more  advanced  ambition,  but  doing 
her  best  while  waiting  definite  word  from  her  husband. 
Only  short  notes  had  been  sent  her,  to  which  no  answers 
were  required,  and  all  of  them  came  from  New  York. 
One  day  there  came  a  package  of  play-books,  in  which 
some  parts  of  a  declamatory  nature  were  marked  as  if  by  a 
hand  conversant  with  the  requirements  of  stage  business. 
She  wondered  much  who  had  done  it;  but  from  what- 
ever source  they  came,  she  was  thankful  for  the  instruc- 
tion she  gained  from  them,  and  many  a  chat  did  Rhoda 
have  with  Jupe  over  the  sound  of  their  mistress'  voice, 
heard  talking  to  herself. 

"  Tell  yo'  what :  'tain't  no  ways  natural  for  no  young 
creature  like  that  to  be  so  lone  like.  No  wonder  she 
talks  to  herself  when  she  thinks  no  one's  in  hearin'. 
I's  goin'  'tell  Massa'  Fred  'tain't  right,  no  ways.  How's 
we  niggahs  to  know  but  what  she'll  go  crazy — seems 
mighty  like  it,  I  can  tell  yeh  !  She  goes  off  on  long 
walks  by  herse'f  through  the  woods,  not  carin'  fer  rain, 
er  sleet,  er  nothin'.  Then  she  comes  back  an'  talks  loud 
an'  cross  sometimes  in  her  room  ;  an'  when  I  open  the 
door,  thar  she  is  as  sweet  as  a  lamb,  an'  always  a  smile 

8 


114  MERZE  : 

an'  a  soft  word.  But  them  smiles  is  all  kindness,  Jupe. 
They  ain't  happiness,  no  how." 

"  How  yo'  'spect  to  know  that  ?  Wimen  folks  is  allus 
a  conjurin'  up  low-spirited  things.  Don't  be  'maginin' 
things,"  advised  her  lord  and  master,  over  his  bacon  and 
sweet  potatoes. 

"I  ain't  a 'maginin';  I  hain't  no  call  to.  She'll  say, 
'  Ef  yeh  please,  Rhody,'  an'  '  No  thanky,  Rhody,'  with 
the  smile  so  sweet  on  her  face  ;  but  her  eyes'll  have  a 
look  in  'em  that  makes  me  feel  like  I  wanted  to  be  her 
mammy,  an*  tell  her  to  just  lay  in  my  arms  an'  have  a 
good  cry,  'case  I  knows  it  'ud  do  her  a  heap  o'  good." 

"  Fo'  the  Lawd's  sake!  That  'ud  be  a  smart  thing  to 
say  to  a  lady  as  yeh  hav'n't  knowed  two  weeks.  But 
wimmen  never  have  no  fitten  sense  o'  things." 

And  so  they  discussed  Merze,  while  she  put  in  her 
days  studying,  and  waiting  with  impatience  some  defi- 
nite word  from  her  husband  regarding  the  future.  He 
had  asked  that  she  remain  there  for  a  few  weeks  until 
he  had  time  to  "  look  around,"  as  he  expressed  it.  It 
seemed  weary  waiting;  but  at  last  came  a  letter  saying  he 
was  coming  down  for  a  day,  and  that  his  cousin  was 
coming  with  him. 

tGreat  was  the  preparation  in  the  kitchen,  and  many 
were  the  praises  sung  by  Rhoda  in  honor  of  "  Massa 
Mark."  Merze  heard  the  name  so  often  that  she  wondered 
if  she  should  ever  be  able  to  call  him  by  any  other. 

"  It's  been  many  a  day  sence  they  both  ben  to  the  ole 
place  at  once,"  remarked  Rhoda,  "an'  they's  mighty 
night  like  to  Jupe  an'  me.  I  was  Massa  Fred's  mammy, 
an'  my  marm  was  Massa  Mark's." 

"  Then  your  Massa  Mark  is  the  eldest,"  remarked 
Merze. 


THE   STORY    OF   AN   ACTRESS.  115 

"  Well,  I  should  say  so  ;  twenty  good  yeahs  er  more  ; 
an'  thar  nevah  was  no  one  o'  the  ole  family  as  good  as 
Massa  Mark  as  evah  I  seed.  Good  ?  He's  jest  been  a 
heap  more  good  to  the  Lawrences  than  the  Lawrences 
evah  was  to  him,  though  he  did  drap  the  name  in  a 
temper  yeah's  ago,  an'  has  stuck  to  his  mother's  evah 
since,  jest  'case  ole  massa  didn't  like  her  furren  notions, 
an'  'ligion,  an'  all.  But  he's  jest  as  good  as  the  gole. 
My  boy  Zack  died  aside  o'  him,  down  thar  in  Georgy  in 
wah  times,  an'  massa  had  him  took  care  of  an'  brought 
back  to  the  ole  place  to  be  buried  when  the  fighten  was 
all  ovah,  an'  I  tell  you  we  niggahs  don't  forgit  it.  Zack 
thought  a  heap  o'  freedom,  but  he  thought  a  heap  more 
o'  Massa  Mark." 

Merze  was  curious  to  see  this  "Massa  Mark,"  of 
whom  they  spoke  with  such  love  and  reverence.  She 
wondered  as  to  his  calling — if  it  was  the  same  as  his 
cousin's — but  did  not  care  to  get  her  information  through 
his  servants,  so  did  not  question. 

The  day  on  which  they  were  to  come  seemed  long  to 
her.  She  could  not  content  herself  to  either  read  or 
study,  for  she  felt  that  the  day  would  bring  some  decis- 
ion as  to  her  future.  At  last  she  threw  on  a  cloak  with 
a  hood  attached,  and,  going  out  the  side  door,  she 
walked  down  an  old  avenue  of  fir  trees  that  led  out  to  a 
by-lane  connecting  with  the  main  road.  She  did  not 
mean  to  walk  far,  but  her  impatience  would  not  allow 
her  to  sit  idly  waiting.  Jupe  had  just  left  for  the  station, 
and  she  knew  it  would  be  almost  an  hour  before  he  got 
back. 

It  was  March,  but  the  promise  of  spring  was  in  the 
air — just  a  touch  of  haziness  and  the  twitter  of  birds 
flying  to  and  fro  with  sweet  chattering.  The  air  was 


116  MERZE  : 

exhilarating,  intoxicating  after  the  closeness  of  the  house. 
Across  the  fields  a  man  was  ploughing,  calling  at  times 
to  his  horses,  singing  and  whistling  as  he  worked.  What 
a  happy,  care-free  heart  such  a  one  must  have,  thought 
the  girl  as  she  heard  him. 

The  wind,  blowing  toward  her,  seemed  to  bear  in  its 
breath  the  fresh  odors  of  the  upturned  earth,  or  it  might 
have  been  only  the  moisture  rising  from  the  ground 
where  she  stood  ;  but  it  brought  tidings  of  springing 
grass  and  all  sweet  things  of  summer  ;  it  was  as  the 
hints  of  change  in  her  own  life — a  vague  expectancy 
that  tingled  through  her  veins,  and  sent  her  restless  here 
to  the  fields  trying  to  outwalk  her  impatience. 

When  she  turned  to  retrace  her  steps,  she  found  they 
were  more  than  she  had  intended  taking.  The  house 
was  easily  a  half  mile  away.  She  walked  hurriedly  back, 
that  they  might  not  find  her  out  on  their  arrival.  She 
had  seen  or  heard  nothing  of  the  carriage.  Yet  it  could 
have  come  while  she  was  out  of  sight.  Half-vexed  at 
the  absentmindedness  that  made  her  forget  how  far  her 
feet  were  wandering,  she  hurried  on,  and  reached,  at 
last,  the  boundary  of  the  old  garden.  As  she  did  so 
the  stooped  form  of  a  man,  coming  from  the  other  end 
of  the  lane,  turned  also  into  the  avenue.  She  tried  to 
draw  back  unnoticed  until  he  passed,  but  saw  he  was 
looking  at  her  intently.  She  bent  her  head  with  a 
pleasant  good-morning,  such  as  is  always  given  on  the 
country  roads,  and  would  have  passed  him,  but  he  lifted 
his  hat  in  return  to  her  salutation,  and  evidently  satisfied 
with  his  scrutiny,  spoke  : 

"  I  think  I  am  not  mistaken  when  I  suppose  you  to  be 
Fred's  wife.  Am  I  right  ?" 

Fred's  wife  !     How  strange  it  sounded  in  her  ears. 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  117 

She  stopped  short,  and  looked  at  this  stranger  who  spoke 
to  her  so  familiarly.  He  had  a  peculiar  face,  darkly 
tinged  and  foreign-looking,  and  his  hair  was  perfectly 
white — a  soft,  silky  white  that  softened  the  features  and 
heightened  the  lines  of  age.  He  seemed  so  at  home  under 
the  old  trees  that  it  could  only  be  one  person. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Lawrence,"  she  answered. 

"  Ah,  yes !  And  you  wonder  who  I  am  to  accost 
you,  eh  ?" 

"  No,"  she  answered,  smiling.  "  I  am  not  much 
puzzled  over  it.  I  feel  sure  you  must  be  '  Massa  Mark,' " 
and  she  held  out  her  hand,  which  he  clasped  warmly. 

"What  a  clever  pair  of  guessers  we  are  !"  he  said, 
looking  at  her  kindly,  curiously.  "And,  if  it  were  a 
younger  man,  we  would  say  what  promises  of  romance 
in  this  curious  beginning  to  our  acquaintance." 

"And,  without  the  romance,  we  can  at  least  hope  it 
will  be  a  forerunner  of  a  pleasant  friendship,"  she  replied, 
feeling  instinctively  drawn  toward  this  peculiar  old  man 
with  the  musical  voice  and  the  sharp,  kindly  eyes. 

"Amen  to  that !"  And  he  again  reached  his  hand,  in 
which  she  unhesitatingly  laid  hers.  Assuredly  it  was  a 
strange  beginning  to  a  strange  friendship. 

"  How  does  it  come  that  you  are  alone,  and  on  foot  ?" 
she  asked,  as  they  walked  on  under  the  fir-trees.  "  Jupe 
went  to  meet  you." 

"  And  I  came  with  them  to  the  end  of  the  lane.  I 
preferred  getting  out  and  taking  the  short  cut  across. 
It  does  one  good  to  breathe  the  air  here.  I  like  to  get 
out  in  it  alone  sometimes  ;  but  a  few  hours  is  enough  of 
it.  I  have  become  demoralized  through  familiarity  with 
the  noise  of  elevated  roads  and  other  convenient  mon- 
strosities of  civilization.  This  quiet  is  oppressive  in 


118  MERZE : 

comparison,  perhaps  because  its  peace  is  a  rebuke  to  the 
fret  and  fume  of  lives  whose  restless  feet  prefer  the 
cobblestones,  though  they  do  leave  bruises  sometimes, 
eh  ?  What  do  you  think  ?  What  would  be  your  choice, 
green  pastures  or  a  paving  of  cold  stone  ?  The  pastures 
are  peaceful,  lovely." 

"But  the  stones  can  be  built  into  monuments,"  she 
answered.  He  looked  at  her  and  laughed.  She  had 
caught  so  quickly  at  his  meaning  ;  but  he  shook  his 
head,  though  he  did  so  kindly,  smilingly. 

"  Monuments  !  Yes,  yes.  Youth  always  expects  that, 
at  least.  Age  is  content  with  grave-room.  Does  that 
make  you  feel  that  I  am  very  melancholy  ?"  he  asked,  as 
she  looked  at  him  questioningly.  "  I  am  not,  I  assure 
you.  Some  people  who  know  me  call  me  '  Mephisto.' 
Now '  Mephisto '  was  not  melancholy,  was  he,  or  have  you 
any  acquaintance  with  his  character  ?" 

"  Not  much,"  she  answered,  amused  and  interested  in 
this  man,  who  was  so  unlike  anything  she  had  imagined 
as  her  husband's  cousin.  "  But,"  she  added,  "  if  any 
have  called  you  so,  it  must  have  been  by  the  rule  of 
contraries.  I  have  heard  your  name  too  often,  through 
Rhoda's  lips,  to  take  you  at  your  own  valuation." 

"Ah  !"  he  breathed,  with  quaint  sadness,  "it  is  always 
so.  Don't  you  know  everyone  has  an  ambition  to  pose 
in  this  life,  some  as  one  character,  some  as  another,  yet 
few  understanding  their  own  ?  In  the  theatre  we  see  it 
most.  Scarce  a  comedian  who  has  not,  at  some  time  in 
his  amateur  days,  longed  to  test  his  voice  in  the  roles  of 
heaviest  tragedy ;  scarce  a  soubrette  who  does  not,  in 
her  soul,  think  herself  fitted  by  nature  to  the  '  Paulines ' 
and  the  '  Juliets ' ;  and  so  it  goes.  And  I,  though  I  insist 
that  I  have  in  me  the  instincts  of  a  '  Mephisto ',  I  must  go 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  119 

always  into  the  parts  of  the  benevolent  father  or  uncle, 
who  end  the  play  with  'Bless  you,  my  children,  bless 
you  !'  Ah,  it  is  very  hard  !  I  believe  it  is  all  the  fault 
of  the  hair,  that  would  insist  on  whitening.  Sometimes 
I  am  tempted  to  dye  it.  What  do  you  think  ?" 

Merze  laughed  at  the  pretense  of  sadness  in  his  voice, 
for  his  quizzical  smile  so  belied  it.  He  was  so  peculiar, 
yet  so  attractive  to  her.  They  seemed  already  on  a  foot- 
ing of  understanding  seldom  reached  save  by  long 
acquaintance.  They  entered  the  side  door  just  as  the 
carriage  drove  up. 

Rhoda  stood  on  the  steps,  asking  multitudinous  ques- 
tions as  to  the  non-appearance  of  Massa  Mark,  and  when 
he  tiptoed  behind  her  and  put  his  hands  over  her  eyes, 
as  he  had  done  when  a  boy,  the  old  creature  turned  with 
a  shrill  cry  of  delight,  and  flung  two  tremulous  black 
hands  up  to  him  : 

"  Massa  Mark,  Massa  Mark  !"  she  said,  pressing  his 
hands  and  kissing  them — the  hands  that  had  closed 
Zack's  eyes — while  every  feature  in  her  face  shone  with 
delight.  Assuredly  Massa  Mark  was  the  favorite  in  the 
old  house. 

Merze  looked  on,  amused  and  touched  by  the  devo- 
tion in  the  black  creature's  manner,  almost  forgetting 
there  was  anyone  else  to  greet,  until  Lawrence  stood 
beside  her  holding  out  his  hand. 

"Am  1  an  outcast?  Have  not  even  you,  Merze,  a 
word — a  how-de-do?" 

"  Many  of  them,"  she  said,  her  face  flushing  a  little  as 
she  saw  Guarda  watching  this  greeting  between  Fred 
and  his  wife.  His  eyes  seemed  to  see  everything.  She 
wondered  if  he  knew — if  Lawrence  had  told  him. 


120  MER2E  : 


CHAPTER   XV. 

All  through  dinner  which  followed,  Lawrence  was 
amused  at  the  interest  Merze  had  roused  in  the  mind  of 
his  whimsical  cousin,  and  he  was  pleased  as  well,  for 
through  friendship  between  them  he  saw  his  way  clear  of 
an  obligation  whose  justice  he  acknowledged  at  the  same 
time  that  the  bonds  grew  irksome. 

It  was  the  old  man  who  opened  the  door  for  her  and 
smiled  kindly  into  her  eyes  as  she  left  the  dining-room; 
then  he  turned  squarely  on  the  other. 

"Fred,"  and  the  old  face  was  no  longer  smiling,  "you 
have  told  me  the  truth  about  this — she  is  your  wife  ?" 

"  Certainly  she  is — more's  the  pity  !  Don't  think  me 
fool  enough  to  try  and  humbug  you  in  such  a  matter. 
Yes,  she's  my  wife.1' 

"Then  what's  wrong?  Surely,  Fred,  you  are  not 
throwing  away  the  content  you  might  have  ?  At  your  age 
a  man  should  know  how  to  appreciate  a  wife  like  that. 
She  would  be  one  in  a  thousand." 

Lawrence  laughed  a  little  as  he  cracked  a  walnut  and 
leisurely  searched  out  the  kernel. 

"  Now  don't  lecture,  Mark.  I  didn't  ask  you  to  come 
for  that.  Besides  it's  all  no  good ;  we  have  settled  our 
own  affairs  to  our  own  satisfaction.  The  one  question 
now  is  some  occupation  for  her.  She  wants  to  be  inde- 
pendent. I  expected  an  unbiased  critic  in  you  as  to  her 
qualifications  for  the  stage,  but  you  seem  entirely  under 
her  spell  already." 

"Which  you  are  not,  it  seems." 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ACTRESS.  121 

"  Not  exactly." 

"  And  she  ?" 

"  Is  in  the  same  agreeable  state  of  affection  toward 
myself." 

"  And  she  has  no  money  ?" 

"  Not  a  cent." 

"  Then  I  can't  understand  what  possible  motive  you 
could  have  in  marrying  each  other." 

"  Possibly  not,  and  you  are  not  likely  to.  It  was  all 
done  for  the  best,  Mark;  believe  that  at  least ;  but  it  has 
been  a  big  mistake  for  both.  To  a  man  I  suppose  such 
things  don't  matter  so  much;  but  she  feels  it  most,  as  she 
happens  to  be  one  of  the  sort  who  can't  take  things 
lightly." 

"  No  honest  woman  could  take  such  a  state  of  affairs 
lightly.  You  should  be  thankful  for  that,  since  she  bears 
your  name.  You  have  surely  seen  enough  of  women 
who  take  lightly  the  bond  of  wedding  vows." 

"  Don't  preach,  Mark;  you  have  never  been  bound  by 
them.  As  to  Merze — yes,  she  will  always  take  things 
too  seriously  to  be  happy.  Life  must  be  intense  and 
earnest  to  her,  with  the  intensity  of  melodrama  ;  but  it 
is  not  a  desirable  trait  in  a  wife." 

"  Melodrama  ?"  repeated  the  old  man,  "  well,  perhaps  ; 
who  can  tell  ?  But  her  eyes  have  in  them  the  weakness 
and  the  strength  of  tragedies." 

Lawrence  laughed  at  the  earnest  tone. 

"Assuredly,  Mark,  this  is  a  decided  'case,'  since  you 
begin  on  a  few  hours'  acquaintance  to  imagine  such 
poetic  things.  She  is  handsome  to  look  at,  but  beyond 
that  she  has  never  been  particularly  interesting  to  me.  I 
am  too  prosaic  ever  to  discover  the  germ  of  tragedies  in 
her  statuesque,  still  features.  They  have  always  looked 


122  MERZE  : 

rather  blank  to  me.  I  fear  as  an  actress  she  would  lack 
fire.  She  would  never  be  a  woman  to  compromise  her- 
self in  any  way;  her  sense  of  duty  would  be  stronger 
than  any  temptation  could  become.  Her  husband  can 
afford  to  have  ease  on  that  score." 

Mark  looked  across  at  the  careless,  nonchalant  face,  a 
half  feeling  of  wrath  in  his  mind  against  it,  and  a  great 
compassion  for  the  loveless  life  of  the  girl  who  had  just 
left  them. 

"You  talk  like  a  fool,  Fred,  and  you  are  acting  more 
like  one  in  allowing  her  to  go  out  alone  into  the  world 
with  a  face  like  hers  and  an  empty  heart." 

"  And  you  have  only  a  theory  of  her  nature  from  her 
face,  yet  you  are  talking  all  sorts  of  imaginary  nonsense 
over  her.  An  empty  heart  !  So  much  the  better;  she  can 
give  the  more  thought  to  her  work.  A  lover  is  a  sad  inter- 
ference." 

"  But  a  husband  who  has  an  honest  interest  in  her 
work — surely  such  a  one  is  best  for  a  woman  always." 

"  I  fear  Merze  will  not  agree  with  you.  A  husband  is 
the  least  desirable  to  her  of  all  earthly  things.  There  is 
no  use  discussing  the  question,  Mark.  She,  herself,  has 
asked  to  be  free.  It  is  not  a  flattering  confession  to 
make,  but  it  is  true,  so  you  needn't  look  on  her  as  a 
deserted  woman,  or  any  of  that  rubbish.  No  use  going 
into  details  as  to  the  cause ;  that  is  only  of  interest  to 
ourselves.  There  is  no  sentimental  nonsense  between 
us,  and  there  never  was.  I  would  have  tried  to  be  as 
good  a  husband  to  her  as  men  of  our  sort  can  be,  but  it 
is  of  no  use.  She  would  get  along  with  you  all  right. 
You  could  talk  blank  verse  to  each  other.  But  there  is 
no  music  to  her  in  the  name  of  wife,  and  never  will  be." 

"  Never  will  be  ?  Time  only  tells  such  things,  Fred.  She 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  123 

has  a  good  face.  I  like  it — like  it  well  enough  to  fear 
that  the  music  may  reach  her  ears  too  late." 

They  both  sat  silent  after  Mark's  last  speech.  It  con- 
tained much  that  Lawrence  had  already  taken  into 
consideration,  for  all  the  lightness  of  his  answers.  At 
last  he  rose  and  asked  : 

"  Shall  we  go  to  her  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  rising  also.  At  the  door  he 
stopped  and  asked  :  "  Have  you  decided  ?" 

"  Answer  me  a  question  first.  Has  she  enough  in  her 
favor  to  succeed  ?" 

"  Yes.  With  only  average  intelligence  and  that  face, 
voice,  and  magnetic  manner  she  could  be  made  a  suc- 
cess. She  has  more  than  average  intelligence,  and  if 
given  a  chance  would,  I  think,  win  success  in  anything 
she  determined  to  do.  That  is  my  honest  opinion  ;  but 
I  would  not  advise  a  public  life  for  her." 

"As  to  that,  she  must  decide  for  herself." 

And  without  more  words  the  two  men  entered  the 
room  where  Merze  awaited  them. 

"You  were  very  long  coming,"  she  said,  making  room 
beside  her  for  Mark  on  the  old-fashioned  carved  settee. 

"We  were  talking  of  you,"  replied  Lawrence, 
"and  the  subject  grew  quite  interesting;  hence  our 
delay." 

"  I  did  not  imagine  myself  of  so  much  consequence," 
she  said,  as  carelessly  as  she  could,  while  her  heart  beat 
rapidly  at  the  thought  that  it  must  be  of  the  stage  they 
spoke.  Now,  surely,  she  would  hear  something  of  the 
decision. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lawrence,  seating  himself  leisurely,  "  of 
you  and  this  new  ambition  of  yours.  Mr.  Guarda  is 
something  of  an  authority  on  such  matters.  Would  you 


124  MERZE  : 

mind  reading  aloud  a  little  ?  It  will  give  him  a  better 
idea  of  your  voice  than  conversation  can  give." 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  looking  from  one  to  the 
other.  It  was  such  an  abrupt  request — she  was  so  totally 
unprepared — that  at  first  she  did  not  know  what  to  say. 
Guarda  laid  his  hand  on  hers  kindly. 

"  Yes,  child,  the  '  Mephisto '  is  a  very  harmless  one. 
Read  me  a  little  something — anything;  don't  let  the  pros- 
pect frighten  you.  It  is  necessary  that  I  hear  before  I 
can  judge." 

"  I  know  that.  I  am  not  frightened,  but  it  took  me  by 
surprise.  I  will  be  glad  to  read  to  you,  but  don't  be  too 
harsh  in  your  criticism  ;  remember  I  did  not  expect  to 
entertain  you  so." 

She  was  looking  over  some  books  as  she  spoke,  not  to 
Lawrence,  but  to  Guarda.  She  wished  her  husband  did 
not  need  to  be  there.  She  did  not  care  nearly  so  much 
for  the  stranger's  criticism  as  she  did  for  his;  yet  she 
could  not  tell  him  so. 

"  Choose  for  me,"  she  said,  taking  to  Guarda  three 
books;  "perhaps  you  will  know  what  is  best." 

He  turned  the  leaves  of  one  over.  It  was  Meredith's 
'  Clytemnestra,'  with  all  its  beauty  of  music,  all  its  color- 
ing of  passion. 

"  Read  those  speechesof  '  Clytemnestra'  and  'Agesthus,' 
also  that  chorus." 

He  handed  her  the  book  as  she  stood  leaning  one 
hand  on  the  mantel.  In  that  position  she  could  not  see 
Lawrence's  face,  so  she  remained  there  and  began. 

Her  voice  was  not  natural  at  first.  There  were  harsh 
notes  in  it,  and  she  was  not  sure  enough  of  herself ;  but 
after  a  few  speeches  the  earnestness  in  them  took  posses- 
sion of  her,  and  the  words  of  the  woman,  great  in  her 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  125 

strength,  admirable  even  in  her  weakness,  were  given 
in  pride,  in  taunts,  in  the  sad  relapse  into  memories  of 
past  happiness,  in  the  many  phases  of  a  strange  love 
endeavoring  to  raise  its  companion  to  the  level  of  her 
own  courage.  The  chorus,  with  its  wail  of  prophecy  in 
it,  ended,  dying  out  in  the  shadowy  old  room  in  which  no 
word  was  spoken  until  she  closed  the  book. 

"  Will  that  do  ?  Is  it  enough  ?"  she  asked  Guarda. 
She  did  not  look  at  Lawrence,  and  he  did  not  speak. 

"  It  is  enough — it  will  do,"  answered  the  old  man, 
leading  her  to  a  chair  with  an  added  degree  of  impress- 
iveness  in  his  manner.  "  I  thought  you  could  do  cred- 
itably. I  did  not  hope  to  hear  reading  so  good  as  you 
have  given  us." 

"And  do  you  think  —  is  it  likely  I  could  be  an 
actress  ?" 

"  You  have  much  in  your  favor.  I  think  I  can  safely 
say,  if  you  are  not  afraid  of  hard  work,  yes." 

"  I  am  afraid  of  nothing  if  I  only  had  hope  that  the 
work  would  be  good;  but — "  and  then  she  turned  to 
Lawrence — "  can  I  ? — am  I  to  try?" 

"  You  are  to  choose  for  yourself.  It  will  be  work,  as 
he  says." 

"  But  it  will  also  be  independence,  and  I  will  be  so 
much  more  contented.  I  seem  useless  as  it  is." 

"  Don't  build  up  too  much  on  entire  independence  at 
first,"  said  Guarda,  shaking  his  head.  "  It  will  be  some 
time  before  you  can  fly  with  your  own  wings." 

"Is  it — will  it  mean  money  —  much  expense?"  she 
asked,  fearful  after  all  that  it  could  not  be. 

"  Nothing  more  than  you  can  repay  when  your  fortune 
is  made,"  answered  Lawrence.  "  I  suppose  nothing  less 
will  meet  your  new  ideas  of  independence.  If  Mark  is 


126  MERZE  : 

willing  to  take  charge  of  you,  you  can  consider  the  affair 
settled  as  soon  as  you  like." 

"  Mr.  Guarda  ?  Why  should  he  ?"  and  then  she  stopped, 
puzzled  at  being  consigned  to  his  care. 

"  Because  he  belongs  to  a  theatre  and  has  better 
opportunities  for  advancing  you  than  anyone  I  know." 

"  And  I  never  knew — you  never  told  me  !" 

"  No,  I  never  did,"  he  answered,  calmly;  "  there  was 
no  object ;  neither  did  I  mention  Grayholme.  I  never 
gossip  over  family  affairs.  I  was  not  sure  you  would 
ever  meet  either  of  them,  and,  after  this  soaring  ambition 
took  hold  of  you,  I  kept  quiet  about  him  for  fear  of 
raising  false  hopes." 

"  And  you,"  she  said,  turning  to  Guarda,  "  you  are 
willing  to  help  me  ?  to  put  me  where  I  can  learn  and 
earn  my  own  living  at  the  same  time  ?  I  will  try  very 
hard  not  to  be  a  discredit  to  you." 

"  I  believe  you,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  hers.  "  I 
will  do  what  I  can  ;  but  I  warn  you  I  will  be  cross.  I 
will  scold  often.  If  you  are  sensible  you  will  scold  back. 
I  have  had  to  teach  women  who  cried  if  I  scolded.  You 
must  not  do  that,  and  we  will  be  very  ambitious,  you  and 
I,  though  we  will  quarrel,"  and  his  kindly  pressure  of  her 
hand  and  earnestness  of  eyes  told  Merze  she  had  found 
a  friend. 

And  then  they  sat  discussing  plans  for  her.  Lawrence 
did  not  enter  into  them  except  in  one  case,  and  that  was 
regarding  the  name  she  should  use,  he  insisting  that  she 
should  not  be  known  as  a  married  woman. 

"  There  are  many  worthy  women  in  the  profession  who 
bear  their  husbands' names,"  remonstrated  Merze. 

"I  don't  dispute  that,"  he  replied;  "but  not  young 
women,  and  not  successful  women,  or  else  their  success 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ACTRESS.          127 

has  been  won  through  other  channels  than  dramatic 
ability.  No — as  to  the  rest  I  leave  it  to  Mark  and  your- 
self ;  but  about  the  name  allow  me  to  judge.  You  must 
not  be  known  as  a  married  woman." 

"  Then  must  I  get  a  divorce  ?"  she  asked,  trying  to 
speak  lightly,  though  she  was  embarrassed  at  this  subject 
being  touched  on  before  Guarda,  who,  with  all  his  kind- 
liness, was  yet  a  stranger  to  her.  And  she  noticed  he 
had  no  word  to  say  in  this  discussion. 

"  No,"  answered  Lawrence,  "there  is  to  be  no  divorce 
unless  you  wish  it  ;  we  settled  that  before." 

"I  shall  never  wish  it,"  she  said,  impulsively,  with  a 
half-remorseful  feeling  at  not  being  able  to  care  more  for 
him,  for  usually  he  was  most  kind.  "  You  are  much 
better  to  me  than  I  deserve,  I  think,  and  I  promise  to 
do  as  you  say  regarding  my  name." 

"Then  first  you  must  oromise  never  to  let  it  be  known 
that  you  are  married." 

"  Never  ?" 

"  Never  without  my  consent.  I  ask  the  promise  for 
your  own  good.  Some  day  you  will  thank  me  for  it.  A 
young  girl  will  make  a  hit,  when,  if  she  were  known  to  be 
any  man's  wife,  she  would  scarcely  be  noticed.  It  will 
be  an  illusion  easily  kept  up,  as  you  are  not  likely  to  see 
me  often.  I  leave  for  '  Frisco,'  in  a  week." 

"  You  are  going  away  ?" 

"  I  certainly  am.  There  is  no  object  or  duty  to  keep 
me  now,"  he  said,  smiling  into  her  serious  face.  "  You 
will  be  left  in  good  hands.  But  as  to  the  name,  that 
must  be  settled  as  I  say.  Either  Merze  Lawrence  or 
Merze  Mignot,  without  the  'Mrs.'  And,"  he  added,  "  you 
can  use  the  latter  now  if  you  choose  ;  there  are  no 
longer  any  grounds  for  that  old  fear  of  your  father's 


128  MERZE  : 

as  to  relations  claiming  you.  You  are  no  longer  a 
child." 

"There  never  were  any  grounds  for  that  fear,"  she 
answered,  "for  I  could  never  have  gone  to  them  or 
remained  with  them  had  they  taken  me.  That  will  not 
influence  my  use  of  names.  You  and  Mr.  Guarda  choose  ; 
you  will  know  which  is  best." 

"  Mignot  is  the  best  stage  name  by  far,"  said  Guarda, 
"  it  is  an  uncommon  one,  and  looks  well.  As  to  Fred's 
idea  about  the  marriage  business,  he  is  partially  right, 
I  am  sorry  to  say.  It  is  not  the  fault  of  the  profession  ; 
it  is  the  fault  of  the  public,  and  has  too  often  proved  a 
curse  to  those  who  cater  to  it.  Yes,  he  is  right  in  a  way  ; 
yet  I  don't  see  the  necessity  for  such  a  promise  of 
secrecy." 

"  But  he  does,  or  he  would  not  ask  it,"  answered 
Merze. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  never  done  much  to  please  him," 
and  she  glanced  half-contritely  toward  Lawrence.  "  But 
I  can  do  this  and  I  will,  and  you  will,  I  am  sure,  respect 
our  wish  for  silence." 

"  Certainly,  if  you  make  a  point  of  it,"  answered 
Guarda,  "and  I  hope  the  future  will  justify  your  com- 
pact ;  but  I  am  much  older  than  either  of  you,  and  have 
always  found  it  best  to  fight  shy  of  blind  promises.' 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  129 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Ah,  the  golden  days  in  the  months  that  followed ! 
Golden  to  Merze,  despite  the  drudgery,  for  they  were 
months  of  freedom,  which  meant  to  her  happiness.  She 
had  begun  to  see  the  difficulties  in  the  way  to  greatness, 
to  fame,  but  it  did  not  weaken  her  ambition.  She  played 
in  the  stock  company  of  the  Chatel,  the  theatre  where 
Guarda  was,  and  had  been,  stage  manager  for  years. 
Every  night  she  appeared  in  the  modern  society  pieces, 
that  gave  her  self-possession  and  knowledge  of  stage 
business,  but  to  the  classics,  to  the  old  masters  of 
standard  dramatic  works,  did  the  old  man  go  for  her 
deeper  education.  And  he  was  her  only  teacher — a 
tireless  one,  to  whom  she  gave  love  and  reverence  such 
as  she  had  never  given  to  any.  Her  own  father  had  not 
been  one  to  inspire  such  affection,  and  there  had  been 
no  other,  except  that  one  man  that  one  day. 

She  was  not  alone  now,  as  she  had  been  in  her  school 
days.  There  was  no  holding  aloof  among  these  frank, 
courteous  people.  She  had  come  among  them  an 
amateur,  with  none  who  knew  her,  save  the  white-haired, 
whimsical,  well-loved  stage  manager.  He  had  spoken 
of  her  as  a  young  friend  of  his,  and  they  of  Bohemia, 
knowing  how  seldom  he  gave  that  title  to  any,  felt  she 
was  worthy,  and  without  question,  welcomed  her  to  their 
circle — a  magic  one,  that  excludes  all  such  trifles  as 
affairs  of  state,  or  the  war  of  nations.  Under  a  mon- 
archy or  republic — it  is  all  the  same  to  them.  Is  there 
war  in  the  South,  or  disease  in  the  North,  they  spread 

9 


130  MERZE  : 

wings  for  safer  climes,  when  and  whither  it  matters  not ; 
now  plucking  fruit  or  flowers  on  the  golden  slopes  of 
California  ;  now  laughing,  jesting  with  old  friends  on  the 
"  Rialto  "  in  their  metropolis  of  the  East. 

So  they  pass,  with  heartiness  of  voice  and  warm  clasp 
of  hands,  and  smiles  always,  until  the  plodding  workers 
of  other  trades,  looking  on,  speak  often  of  the  easy  care- 
lessness of  fruitless  lives.  Fruitless  ?  When  for  number- 
less nights  they  bring  a  space  of  forgetfulness  to  the 
woes  of  thousands ;  when  the  morals  given  through 
their  lips  carry  earnestness  with  a  force  that  comes  but 
seldom  from  a  pulpit !  Careless  ?  Ah,  yes,  they  laugh  ! 
And  that  laughter  so  often  stamps  them  of  heroic  souls. 
They  laugh  though  they  drop  dead  in  the  harness  ;  they 
laugh  on,  though  now  and  then  the  strain  is  too  much, 
and  the  gates  of  a  madhouse  close  on  a  life  full  of 
promise  or  of  glorious  fulfillment. 

But  if  there  are  others  to  laugh  instead,  the  public 
will  soon  forget  the  silent  voice,  and  continue  the  repe- 
tition of  old  saws  and  sayings  of  past  ages  regarding 
these  gay  workers,  forgetting  that  age  and  customs  have 
changed. 

Of  the  skeletons  hidden  under  the  tinsel,  Merze  had 
seen  but  little.  The  company  at  the  Chatel  was  a  very 
domestic  one,  very  quiet  and  prosaic  indeed,  in  com- 
parison with  the  general  highly-colored  ideas  of  the 
ignorant  in  regard  to  such  an  assembly  of  workers — the 
ignorance  that  always  condemns  when  it  can  not  under- 
stand. 

But  she  had  at  least  learned  one  danger  for  those  on 
whom  the  footlights  shine  as  the  white  light  that  beats 
upon  the  throne — that  fate  ever  decrees  that  each  word, 
each  action,  is  a  thing  claimed  by  the  public,  to  be 


THE   STORY    OF   AN    ACTRESS.  131 

discussed  and  passed  from  lip  to  lip,  until  a  thoughtless 
word,  a  drop  of  dew,  may  drag  down  a  deluge  such  as 
has  drowned  the  reputation  of  many  a  blameless  one. 

Massa  Mark — he  had  grown  to  be  that  to  her  since 
the  first  day  under  the  firs  at  Greyholme — had  tried  as 
best  he  could  to  instill  this  knowledge  in  her  mind 
without  frightening  her,  or  showing  her  the  depths  of 
the  abyss  along  which  she  walked. 

Ah,  those  happy  days  and  nights,  with  the  sense  in 
them  that  hundreds  listened  to  her  voice,  though  her 
roles  were  often  unimportant !  Guarda  was  himself  of 
the  old  school,  and  would  have  no  forced  bloom  in  the 
life  of  this  girl,  who  was  as  a  flower  to  him. 

"  It  is  the  only  way,  child,  the  only  way,"  he  would 
say,  when  the  impetuous  young  blood  grew  impatient  at 
the  length  of  her  probation.  "  How  can  you  hope  to  do 
good  work  if  you  do  not  understand  the  rudiments  of 
your  profession  ?" 

"Others  succeed  without  such  study,"  she  said,  unfold- 
ing a  dramatic  paper.  "  See  !  Here  is  Norine's  name 
as  a  star,  an  attraction  in  herself,  and  her  experience  is 
no  more  than  my  own,  not  two  seasons,  yet  someone  has 
written  a  play  for  her.  She  is  a  success,  yet  what  does 
she  know  of  Shakespeare  or  Sheridan  ?  Nothing.  She  is 
illiterate,  without  refinement.  You,  yourself,  had  her  sent 
from  the  Chatel  for  some  misconduct.  Yet  her  name  is 
here  with  all  praise,  and  I — I  study  hard  every  day  to 
understand  the  works  that  will  always  be  unintelligible  to 
her  ;  yet  who  knows  the  name  of  Merze  Mignot  ?" 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  sadly.  She  had  grown  so 
very  near  to  him,  and,  for  all  her  marriage,  she  seemed 
to  him  still  a  child,  and  a  child  he  honored  for  the 
bravery  that  had  never  once  said  "  Pity  me  !"  while  he 


132  MERZE  : 

could  see  there  had  been  bitterness  in  her  life  that  was 
not  trifling,  though  there  had  been  no  confidences  given 
him  or  required,  and,  without  question,  he  had  said  :  "  I 
will  be  your  friend." 

Perhaps  a  knowledge  of  Fred's  life  had  urged  him  to 
the  offer  when  he  had  seen  this  girl  with  a  width  of  deso- 
lation in  her  eyes,  and  no  hope  of  content  in  her  home  ; 
and  she  had  turned  thankfully,  quickly  toward  the  first 
friendly  hand  held  toward  her,  so  quickly  that  Guarda 
thought  again  of  Lawrence.  "  He  is  a  fool  to  rest  in 
safety  on  her  sense  of  duty.  It  may  be  strong,  but  there 
is  also  strength  of  gratitude  in  her.  It  is  well,  for  her 
sake,  that  it  is  I  who  came  first,  and  not  a  younger  man." 

He  had  petted  and  scolded  her  through  two  seasons, 
until  a  semblance  of  the  old  childish  impetuosity  came 
to  her  at  times  in  her  intercourse  with  him,  as  it  did  this 
day,  when  the  record  of  Norine's  success  made  her  own 
work  appear  worthless, 

"  Ah,  Merze,"  he  said,  chidingly,  "  you  are  still  but  a 
child.  You  know  more  than  Norine.  Yes,  thank  God, 
in  all  things  that  are  best.  But  she  has  the  knowledge 
of  her  world  and  age  such  as  I  hope  you  will  never  gain 
through  the  same  channels,  and  you  lament  that  the 
public  know  her  best !  That  is  paltry.  I  care  more  than 
to  want  such  fame  for  any  pupil  of  mine.  When  they 
know  you,  I  do  not  intend  they  shall  forget  you.  And 
who  remembers  Norine  when  the  curtain  falls?  Not 
one  who  has  received  benefit  from  her  work  in  any 
artistic  sense.  Art,  in  its  higher  attributes,  will  always 
be  a  thing  unintelligible  to  her,  an  empty  name — nothing, 
and  of  no  use  in  her  work  so  long  as  she  can  grimace 
and  dance  very  badly,  but  in  a  catchy  way  that  suits  the 
gallery.  Act  ?  Bah  !  She  can  shout  through  five  acts 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  133 

of  a  border  drama  if  there  are  enough  tableaux  and  red 
fire  to  help  her  through.  Surely  you  do  not  want  success 
such  as  that  ?" 

His  words  of  sarcastic  ridicule  brought  a  half-feeling 
of  shame  to  her,  remembering,  as  she  did,  his  unceasing 
kindness. 

"  Forgive  me,  Massa  Mark !"  she  said,  contritely 
enough.  "  You  are  right  always,  I  know ;  only  some- 
times it  seems  long  to  wait ;  but  forgive  me." 

"  Forgive  ?"  he  said,  looking  at  her  fondly,  a  little 
sadly.  "  Certainly,  child.  There  is  little  to  forgive ; 
but  if  there  were,  age  learns  the  necessity  of  it." 

He  could  see  so  plainly  her  rebellion  at  the  service  in 
the  ranks,  while  all  the  swift-coursing  blood  of  youth 
throbbed  with  longing  for  leadership.  He  could  appre- 
ciate it  himself,  for  once  his  own  pulse  had  beaten  as 
quickly  with  the  same  hope,  but  it  was  long,  very  long 
ago.  Some  great  change  of  sorrow  had  come  into  his 
life  years  before.  What,  none  knew,  for  he  was  always 
silent  as  to  his  own  affairs  ;  but  it  had  whitened  his  hair 
and  silenced  the  voice  that  had  never  been  heard  above 
the  footlights  since. 

Managing  the  stage  contented  him  now,  or,  if  it  did 
not  content,  none  was  ever  the  wiser.  A  man  who 
knew  everyone's  record,  but  of  whom  little  was  known 
outside  of  business  transactions.  How  long  since  he 
had  drifted  into  New  York  and  settled  there,  none  could 
tell,  or  cared  to  count  back  through  the  years.  His  face 
was  one  of  the  old  landmarks  that  the  players  were 
always  sure  of  meeting  when  they  came  trooping  in  at 
the  end  of  the  season.  And  a  welcome  one  it  often  was 
to  the  poor  fellows  who  had  been  "playing  in  hard 
luck  "  out  through  nameless  States. 


134  MERZE  ' 

His  words  were  often  curt,  his  sharp  eyes  were  sure 
to  see  every  faulty  movement  during  a  rehearsal,  and 
there  alone  could  he  be  likened  to  the  "  Mephisto  "  of  his 
whimsical  fancy — not  an  isolated  case,  as  most  stage 
managers  can  affirm  ;  it  is  a  r6le  thrust  on  them  so  often 
in  the  thoughts  of  those  they  would  teach.  It  is  doubt- 
ful if  the  volunteer  who  has  acquitted  himself  well 
in  his  first  battle  can  ever  again  see  the  necessity  of 
drills. 

He  occupied  rooms  in  which  he  had  lived  for  years, 
and  the  walls  were  covered  with  the  pictured  faces  of 
an  age  he  had  seen  die  out,  the  faces  among  which  his 
youth  had  been  lived  ;  and  his  eyes,  gazing  at  them, 
would  tempt  his  memory  until  it  would  wander  back 
through  the  years  that  comprehended  the  greater  part 
of  the  history  of  the  drama  in  America.  A  very  much 
littered  room  it  was,  with  its  multitudes  of  manuscripts 
and  old  engravings  of  theatrical  scenes  and  people  ; 
many  of  them  stars  that  had  burned  out,  and  in  whose 
stead  his  old  eyes  could  see  only  will-o'-the-wisps. 

For  Merze  he  had  secured  a  home  in  a  private  family, 
where  two  pleasantly-situated  rooms  were  furnished  taste- 
fully but  inexpensively.  She  would  incur  no  expense 
that  she  could  not  see  her  way  clear  to  repay  ;  and 
although  Guarda  tried  to  force  many  little  luxuries  on 
her,  he  admired  the  will  that  would  not  allow  itself  to  be 
persuaded,  while  he  knew  she  had  all  a  beautiful  woman's 
longing  for  beautiful  things. 

Of  Lawrence  they  heard  but  seldom,  and  not  very 
favorably.  Evidently  Dame  Fortune  did  not  lavish  on 
him  the  smiles  as  of  yore.  He  had  written  asking 
Guarda  to  buy  out  his  share  of  Greyholme,  as  he  needed 
the  money.  The  old  man,  through  years  of  steady 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  135 

labor,  had  amassed  quite  a  considerable  amount  of 
money,  and  was  quite  able  and  rather  glad  to  do  it. 

"  I  would  not  want  it  to  go  into  the  hands  of  stran- 
gers," he  said  to  Merze,  when  they  discussed  the  question. 
"  Jupe  and  Rhoda  must  be  taken  care  of ;  and  who 
knows,  some  time  it  may  be  a  welcome  retreat  for  us  in 
our  old  days,  my  dear.  Yes,  my  child,  we  must  begin  to 
look  ahead.  I  will  buy  it." 

His  decision  was  gratifying  to  Merze.  During  her 
short  stay  she  had  become  much  attached  to  the  quaint 
old  place,  with  its  dusky  grandeur  of  a  past  age.  She 
liked  to  think  of  it  as  a  home  to  which  she  might  return, 
but  felt  she  could  not  do  so  in  content  while  it  be- 
longed in  part  to  her  husband,  though  she  tried  always 
to  have  only  kind  thoughts  of  him,  and  had  offered  him 
her  little  all  that  had  been  saved  from  her  salary,  an 
offer  which  he  refused. 

The  two  seasons  had  passed  quickly,  despite  the 
work,  which  was  trying  sometimes.  There  were  the 
libraries,  the  art  galleries,  the  many  things  to  be  seen  in 
a  great  city  for  the  asking,  and  with  her  was  always  to 
be  seen  the  white-haired  old  man  with  the  shambling 
gait  and  odd,  foreign  face.  A  tireless  companion  he  was, 
with  the  history  of  the  old  town  at  his  finger  ends,  and 
Merze  never  tired  of  the  reminiscences  -which  came  at 
times  from  his  lips,  tinged  with  the  poetry  of  speech 
scarcely  native  to  others  than  those  whose  veins  have 
been  filled  from  sun-kissed  lanes — and  his  had  been. 

Bit  by  bit  he  had  told  scraps  of  his  own  history,  until  she 
knew  that  his  mother  had  been  a  Spanish  dancer — a  beau- 
tiful woman  of  fire  and  motion,  who  had  drifted  across 
the  seas,  and,  after  a  short  season  of  triumph  in  old 
New  York,  had  disappeared  from  the  public.  Love  had 


136  MERZE  : 

proven  stronger  than  art,  and  she  became  the  wife  of  a 
young  Virginia  planter,  a  Lawrence,  and  her  sunny  land 
was  lost  to  her  forever.  Not  a  very  happy  exchange  did 
America  give  her.  Mere  tolerance  was  all  that  her  hus- 
band's family  granted  to  the  young  bride.  Her  calling 
did  not  please  them,  neither  did  her  religion  ;  but  the 
controversy  did  not  last  long.  The  climate — a  tonic  to 
so  many — was  death  to  the  beautiful,  unwelcome  guest. 
She  left  as  a  legacy  to  the  world  her  boy,  Mark.  The  hus- 
band wandered  off  to  South  America,  and  never  came  back, 
and  the  son — with  the  instincts  of  his  mother  in  him — 
chose  the  stage,  and,  in  a  fit  of  anger  at  opposition,  had 
discarded  the  name  of  his  father's  people,  and  claimed  only 
his  mother's.  A  soldier  of  fortune  he  had  been  ever 
since,  asking  nothing  of  his  kindred,  but  helping  them 
much  since  his  days  of  maturity,  now  long  past.  The 
family  were  all  gone  save  himself  and  his  cousin,  and 
few  knew  that  the  stylish,  jaunty,  nonchalant  gambler 
was  at  all  connected  with  the  whimsical,  kindly  stage 
manager  of  the  Chalet.  He  had  been  alone  for  so  many 
years  until  this  girl  had  come,  as  a  blessing,  he  said 
often,  and  it  gave  him  something  to  care  for — to  love — 
the  destiny  of  humanity. 

Of  course,  back  in  the  past  there  had  been  loves. 
What  life  has  them  not  ?  It  is  the  only  music  for  youth 
to  keep  step  to,  and  what  a  mad  dance  it  leads  those 
who  blindly  follow  !  Ah  !  yes,  there  had  been  loves,  but 
no  wife,  no  children,  and  this  girl  was  to  him  what  such 
love  would  have  been  if  it  had  come  into  his  life! 

"  Massa  Mark,"  she  said,  one  day,  caressingly,  smooth- 
ing back  the  white  hair,  "  Massa  Mark,  why  are  you  so 
good  to  me  ?  You  were  so  from  the  first.  I  often  won- 
der at  my  good  fortune." 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  137 

"  Ah,  my  Merze,  you  wonder  at  that.  Everyone,  even 
a  Mephisto,  must  have  something  to  love." 

"  You  say  that  so  often,  Massa  Mark." 

"  Because  I  have  lived  long  and  seen  many  lives.  All 
have  the  same  need." 

"  But  mine " 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  interrupted,  "I  know  what  you  would 
say — that  there  has  been  no  love  come  to  you  as  yet,  and 
you  are  twenty.  What  a  multitude  of  years  !  And  there 
is  no  one,  eh  ? — no  one — but  a  white-haired  old  man  for 
whom  you  have  cared  at  all  ?  and  that — ah,  for  the  young 
such  love  does  "not  content,  though  the  old  are  grateful 
for  even  so  much.  But  there  is  an  ideal  then.  There  is 
always  that,  if  nothing  more  substantial.  Well,  make 
your  ideal  so  high  that  mankind  can  not  climb  to  it ;  then, 
if  you  are  [true  to  it,  you  will  save  your  life  the  fret,  the 
heart-burning,  the  madness  of  the  sweet  song  that  lulls  to 
a  sleep  from  which  you  waken  tired,  disillusioned,  see- 
ing, with  cleared  vision,  the  clay  feet  of  your  god — the 
clay  feet  so  many  walk  beside  all  the  days  of  their  life — 
knowing  that  every  heavy  step  tramples  deeper  some 
sweet,  vague  ambition  of  ideal  growth.  And  why?  Ah  ! 
child,  for  the  sake  of  days  when  the  clay  was  golden  in 
the  eyes  of  love  !" 

A  silence  fell  over  the  two  when  he  finished  speaking. 
So,  often,  some  careless  word  of  hers  would  touch  a 
chord  in  the  old  half-Spanish  heart  that  would  bring  out 
swift,  burning  words  with  the  grace,  the  rythm  of  the 
improvisators  of  his  ancestors — words  sounding  strange 
to  the  ears  of  many,  laughed  at  by  the  careless  about  the 
theatres,  until  a  half  mask  of  curtness  had  gradually 
slipped  over  it.  It  was  not  the  language  of  work-a-day 
life ;  but  it  explained,  in  a  way,  to  Merze  the  position 


138  MERZE  : 

he  held,  though  his  knowledge  exceeded  that  of  more 
successful  workers  around  him. 

It  is  not  genius  alone  that  rises.  It  is  too  fine,  too 
delicate,  unless  mixed  with  the  baser  metals,  and  this 
gold,  in  its  golden  days,  had  not  alloy  enough  to  pass 
current. 

Merze  felt  this  dimly,  tenderly,  and  it  tinged  all  her 
manner  toward  him  with  a'  daughter's  fondness.  She 
leaned  over  to  him,  touching  his  hand  lovingly. 

"  Ah  !  Massa  Mark,"  she  said,  smiling,  "  how  fatal  you 
make  this  blind  god's  kiss.  Is  it  not  ungrateful  ?  I  will 
wager  it  has  not  always  been  unkind  to  you.  But  you 
have  not  once  answered  my  question  why  you  cared  for 
me  from  the  first" 

"  Why  ?  Ah,  curiosity !  Well,  perhaps  because  of 
some  dead-and-gone  bit  of  sentimentality — a  remem- 
brance of  eyes  that  yours  resemble.  We  will  pretend 
that  it  is  so,  you  and  I.  That  will  be  a  romance  of  our 
own  ;  no  other  will  know.  There  will  be  a  woman  in 
this  story  of  ours — a  woman  dead  long  ago — fair  and 
stately,  with  eyes  like  yours ;  not  altogether  happy  eyes, 
my  Merze.  And  when  I  am  old  and  white-haired,  I  see 
again  a  face  like  hers — like  her  daughter's  might  have 
been,  had  she  borne  one.  It  is  a  friendless  face,  and  it 
looks  at  me  with  the  eyes  of  old  days.  Well,  what  am  I 
to  do  ?  The  girl,  she  is  nothing.  Bah,  no  !  An  ignora- 
mus. But  I  take  her,  I  scold  her,  I  make  her  find  fault 
with  me  a  dozen  times  a  day.  I  drill  her  in  ways  she 
thinks  senseless  ;  but  she  is  climbing  up — up  in  knowl- 
edge, and  some  day  her  chance  will  come.  It  comes  to 
all  some  day,  if  they  only  know  enough  not  to  let  it 
pass.  And  then — then  what  will  we  see  ?  The  cocoon 
that  served  its  purpose  well  in  obscurity  ?  No,  no  !  That 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  139 

will  be  left  behind  forever,  and  the  world  will  see  the 
brilliant  thing  it  has  covered.  Oh,  yes !  You  shake 
your  head  ;  but  you  will  see  I  am  of  the  prophets  !  And 
then,  when  this  is  all  accomplished,  you  and  I  will  know  it 
is  all  because  you  had  eyes  like  the  dead  woman  that  an 
old  man  scolded  you  into  being  great.  Well,  how  do 
you  like  my  romance  ?" 

"  But  the  chance,  Massa  Mark  ?  It  is  very  long  in 
coming  !" 

"  Patience,  my  child — patience,  and  shuffle  the  cards." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

But  at  last  the  chance  did  come — the  chance  to  do 
some  work  that  would  place  her  in  a  groove  above  that 
she  had  occupied.  Several  times  she  had  understudied 
the  leading  lady's  roles,  and  once,  in  a  case  of  illness,  had 
even  run  through  a  rehearsal  under  direction  of  the 
author,  who  expressed  surprise  to  Guarda  at  the  girl's 
aptitude  and  delicate  conception  of  the  part. 

"  Only  one  rehearsal,  and  how  naturally  she  drops  into 
the  situations,"  he  said,  lowly,  to  the  old  man.  "  But  a 
little  over  a  year's  experience,  you  say  ?  Well,  a  woman 
like  that  will  not  remain  long  in  the  background.  She  is 
clever,  wonderfully  clever  ;  and  the  youth,  and  the.  grace, 
and  all  that  wealth  of  bronze  hair  !  You  need  not  go 
begging  for  a  leading  lady  should  Mathilde  Hargate  leave 
the  position  unfilled." 

And  though  Merze  did  not  play  the  part,  there  were 
many  of  the  company  who  spoke  regretfully  of  it.  She 
could  not  help  hearing  their  words,  and  it  gave  her  fresh 
encouragement. 


140  MERZE : 

This  was  some  weeks  before  the  holidays.  The  piece 
was  a  success,  and  was  to  be  kept  on  until  another  pro- 
duction by  the  same  author,  Mr.  Orlane,  was  ready, 
which  was  expected  to  be  about  Easter.  He  was  poet, 
as  well  as  playwright,  and  the  commonplaces  of  his  work 
in  modern  comedy  and  drama  did  not  content  him, 
though  they  brought  him  reputation  and  an  enviable  in- 
come. But  the  beauty  of  verse,  in  its  measured  beats, 
kept  the  echoes  of  rythm  in  his  brain  until,  despite 
friendly  warnings,  he  had  essayed  that  most  risky  of  ven- 
tures in  America,  a  classical  drama  by  an  American,  a 
romance  of  that  dead  people,  the  Druids.  The  char- 
acters were  strongly  drawn,  dramatic  life  thrilled  through 
the  musical  verse,  and  the  costumes,  in  their  picturesque 
simplicity,  were  designed  by  an  artist  whose  name  is 
honored  as  one  of  the  foremost  of  modern  workmen.  It 
was  a  labor  of  love,  else  he  would  not  have  spared  from 
his  own  canvas  the  time  precious  to  his  art. 

"  I  can  not  recommend  anyone  to  you,  Orlane,"  he 
said,  when  spoken  to  of  it ;  "but  I  will  do  it  myself." 

"  I  should  never  have  thought  of  asking  it,"  said  Or- 
lane, delightedly.  "  It  would  be  a  great  lift  toward  suc- 
cess for  it ;  but  I  have  never  known  you  to  lend  your  art 
to  theatrical  work." 

"  Neither  have  I,"  replied  North  ;  but  this  thing  would 
appeal  to  any  artist's  fancies.  What  opportunities  for 
picturesque  groupings  in  that  banquet  scene  !  And  the 
sacrifice  at  the  temple,  and  the  accusation  of  Hesta  !  It 
is  a  sort  of  intoxication  to  embellish  such  a  poetical  con- 
ception. No  one  shall  do  it  but  myself.  How  is  it  to  be 
cast  as  to  women  ?  So  much  in  the  draperies  depends  on 
the  women  who  have  to  wear  them." 

"Well,"  said  Orlane,  reflectively,  "it  is  not  altogether 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  141 

decided.  There  will  be  the  Chalet  stock  company,  with 
the  addition  of  choruses,  and  a  few  extra  people  for 
principals.  For  Ogartha,  the  leading  heavy,  there  is 
Mathilde  Hargate ;  for  Isolde  and  Hena  there  are  Miss 
Alwayne  and  Mrs.  Cooper.  Those  are  the  only  ones  of 
importance,  except  Hesta,  the  title  r61e,  and  that  we  are 
at  sea  about.  Miss  Hargate  was  not  pleased  because  it 
was  not  given  to  her." 

"  What !  that  girlish  creation  of  grace  and  dignity ! 
Mathilde  is  plumply  handsome,  and  a  fine  actress. 
Ogartha,  with  its  fire  and  strength,  will  just  fit  her.  But 
the  other !  I  fear,  Orlane,  it  will  be  the  one  weak  spot 
in  the  piece.  To  read  it,  the  character  is  beautiful,  the 
conception  of  a  poet ;  but  how  seldom  you  see  those 
poetical  conceptions  brought  to  life  through  the  lips  of 
another.  It  is  a  thing  to  read  alone,  not  to  risk  being 
marred.  At  this  moment  I  do  not  know  of  one  who 
would  be  my  ideal  of  the  part." 

"Nor  I,"  answered  Orlane,  "with  but  one  exception, 
and  she  is  so  in  looks,  voice,  and  manner.  I  have  asked 
that  she  be  left  out  of  the  cast  in  case  of  an  emergency, 
and  yet " 

"Well,  what's  the  matter?" 

"  She  is  not  well  enough  known.  I  should  like  to  have 
a  woman  with  more  of  a  reputation  for  the  title  role. 
You  will  know  the  one  I  mean  ;  she  does  clever  work, 
Merze  Mignot." 

"  Yes,  I  do.  You  are  right ;  she  is  one's  ideal  of  such 
a  part.  Have  her  try  it,  by  all  means.  She  will  do  it 
creditably,  at  least,  and  I  should  not  wonder  if  she  made 
a  success  of  it.  She  is  rather  on  the  statuesque  order. 
Just  the  thing  !  And  her  face  !  I  assure  you  it  will  be  a 
pleasure  to  design  costumes  for  her." 


142  MERZE : 

And  with  this  encouragement  toward  what  he  wholly 
desired,  yet  half  feared,  he  spoke  to  Guarda. 

"  She  will  do  it,"  he  said,  briefly,  and  took  home  to  her 
the  play. 

"  Read  it,  read  it  all,"  he  said.  "  It  is,  I  think,  the 
dearest  ambition  of  this  man's  life.  All  his  successes  will 
not  make  amends,  in  his  eyes,  for  the  failure  of  this,  if  it 
does  fail.  Read  it." 

She  did  so,  earnestly,  not  knowing  the  reason,  but 
charmed  with  the  beauty  of  it. 

"  It  is  grand,  Massa  Mark,"  she  said,  closing  it.  "  But 
it  is  too  fine,  too  delicate,  too  deep  for  the  masses.  Only 
scholars  will  care  for  it." 

"You  are  right,  I  fear.  It  will  gradually  creep  into 
men's  libraries,  but  it  will  not  be  long  seen  on  the  stage 
of  theatres.  We  will  make  it  a  success;  but  the  mount- 
ing, the  dressing,  the  pictures,  and  music  will  be  needed 
to  make  it  so.  It  is  a  pity  there  is  not  more  rugged 
strength,  in  the  stead  of  all  that  delicate  beauty  of  lan- 
guage." 

"  And  I  am  out  of  the  bill.  That  seems  strange.  You 
always  keep  me  so  busy.  How  does  it  come  ?" 

"  Ah,  that  was  a  little  mistake  !  You  are  to  play  after 
all." 

"  And  what — which  part  ?"  she  asked,  eagerly. 

"  Which  would  you  prefer  ?" 

"Massa  Mark,  don't  be  Mephisto  to  me.  You  know  I 
have  not  yet  the  position  from  which  I  can  make  choice 
of  parts." 

"  Perhaps  this  will  help  you  to  such  a  position,  for  you 
play  Hesta." 

"Massa  Mark!" 

That  was  all.     But  the  gladness,  the  incredulity  in  the 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  143 

voice,  showed  the  depth  of  longing  that  yet  feared  to  grasp 
its  prize.  She  had  hoped  before. 

"Yes,  it  is  true,"  he  said,  glad  as  herself.  "  But  don't 
look  like  that,  as  if  you  were  frightened.  Is  the  thought 
so  terrible  ?" 

"  No,  not  that,"  she  answered,  smiling,  though  nerv- 
ous ;  "  but  just  at  first,  for  one  moment,  I  grew  dizzy 
— with  gladness,  I  think.  And  it  is  true,  Massa  Mark, 
quite  true?  And  that  beautiful  Hesta!  And  they 
think — you  think  I  can  do  it  ?" 

"  I  had  not  accepted  for  you  otherwise.  It  is  for  such 
as  this  I  have  had  you  work  quietly,  out  of  sight,  that 
when  your  chance  came  you  would  be  equal  to  it." 

"  And  it  has  come,  Massa  Mark,  it  has  come  at 
last  ?" 

"  It  has  come.    God  grant  it  bring  blessings  to  you." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Very  nervous  was  the  white-robed  Hesta  on  that  open- 
ing night,  but  very  quiet.  Mark  and  Orlane  looked  at 
her  critically  as  she  left  the  dressing-room,  and  each 
showed  by  his  face  that  her  appearance,  at  least,  was  all 
they  could  wish.  The  curtain  had  just  gone  up  on  the 
second  act.  The  first  had  been  enthusiastically  received, 
but  Orlane,  coming  back  from  the  door,  said  there  was 
much  expectancy  regarding  the  Hesta.  North  had  an- 
nounced his  wish  to  paint  a  picture  of  her  in  the  part,  and 
the  report  had  spread  rapidly  in  artistic  circles.  All 
remembered  the  girl  with  the  strange  name  and  the  beau- 
tiful Greek  face,  now  that  a  noted  author  had  found  in  it 
his  ideal  for  a  poetical  character.  All  were  anxious  to 


144  MERZE : 

see  her,  now  that  some  one  of  importance  had  taken  her 
up.  So  it  is  always  ;  the  hounds  and  their  leader  over 
again. 

The  banquet  scene  was  on.  A  young  priestess — 
enchantress,  was  to  be  dedicated  to  the  heathen  temple. 
About  were  grouped  the  people,  in  moving  pictures 
pleasing  to  the  eye,  though  no  words  were  spoken,  save 
the  chorus  of  children's  voices,  heard  in  the  distance, 
then  nearer,  nearer,  ushering  in  the  young  soul  whose 
hand  was,  in  future,  to  shed  the  blood  for  the  highest  of 
their  sacrifices. 

She  stood  in  the  upper  entrance  ;  close  to  her,  Guarda 
and  Orlane.  The  old  man  took  her  hand  in  his.  It  was 
cold  as  ice.  "  Be  brave,  my  child,"  he  whispered.  "  You 
will  succeed  if  you  are  only  that." 

"  I  am  trying  hard  to  be  so,  Massa  Mark,"  she  answered, 
endeavoring  to  smile,  for  all  her  nervousness.  "  But 
things  will  persist  in  swimming  around  a  little  before  my 
eyes.  I  can  scarcely  tell  the  color  of  my  own  dress." 

"  The  audience  will  have  no  trouble  in  distinguishing 
it,"  replied  Orlane.  "  You  will  look  like  a  snow-drop 
among  all  that  mass  of  color  !" 

A  snow-drop  ! 

Back  flashed  her  memory  to  tne  one  who  bade  her 
take  them  as  an  emblem  for  her  life.  Always  she  had 
remembered,  but  his  tones  came  to  her  afresh  across  the 
years  as  she  stood  there.  The  childish  chorus  was 
reaching  its  finish ;  they  were  making  their  entrance, 
scattering  flowers  for  the  path  of  the  young  devotee. 

Still  she  stood.  A  snow-drop  !  The  memory  should 
lend  inspiration  for  this  work  that  surely  was  fitting  for 
his  words,  his  hopes  for  her.  Orlane  touched  her  arm, 
anxiously. 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  145 

"  It  is  you  ;  the  music  is  ceasing.     Go  !" 

Another  moment  and  she  stood  before  them,  under 
the  graven  arch  of  the  ruined  temple.  The  full  moon, 
rising  through  the  trees,  enveloped  her  with  its  glamor 
of  blue  mist  until  she  looked  a  marble  thing,  a  creature 
perfect  as  a  star,  standing  there  in  the  virginal  robes, 
that  clung  to  the  rounded  form  and  fell  in  white  folds  to 
the  bare,  sandaled  feet,  that  shone  like  pink  wax  on  the 
dark  tiles. 

One  instant  a  hush  fell  over  the  house,  the  next,  ear- 
nest applause  was  her  reception — the  first  sweet  sip  of 
adulation.  She  did  not  acknowledge  it  by  look  or 
gesture.  Her  eyes  were  on  the  audience,  but  the  gaze 
was  as  one  deaf  to  the  things  close  around,  hearing  only 
voices  akin  to  those  Joan  listened  to  among  the  pastures. 
The  others  separated,  giving  space  to  the  seemingly 
enchanted  figure  that  moved  with  fateful,  unseeing  eyes 
through  their  midst. 

One  instant  the  arms  were  raised  and  nands  clasped 
over  the  eyes,  as  if  to  shut  out  insistent  visions, 
then  the  voice,  clear  and  low  as  an  ^Eolian  harp, 
with  its  sad  undertone,  went  out  to  the  listening 

audience : 

Of  blood  they  whisper,  till  it  drips  and  drowns, 
Through  all  the  days  of  dread  that  are  to  come, 
Through  honors  given,  great,  though  terrible, 
And  rites  held  sacred  that  do  hem  around 
The  soul  a-sick  for  youth's  fair  dynasty. 

Her  tones  thrilled  the  hearers,  who  wondered  if  this 
peerless  creature  could  be  the  one  they  had  ever  noticed, 
carelessly,  as  a  handsome  girl,  with  a  fine  voice  and 
magnificent  hair.  She  was  a  thing  of  the  ocean,  whose 
life  had  been  cramped  into  narrow  channels,  until  a 
chance  current  had  borne  her  on  its  bosom  out  into  the 
10 


146  MERZE  : 

boundless  reaches  of  her  own  element.  Her  success  was 
unequivocal. 

Some  gentlemen  in  an  upper  box  were  very  demon- 
strative in  their  applause,  so  much  so  that  it  was  an 
annoyance.  Hesta,  waiting  for  it  to  cease,  raised  her 
eyes  in  mute  reproof  toward  them.  But  her  gaze  did 
not  reach  to  their  height.  Another  pair  of  eyes  arrested 
her  own.  Dark,  questioning,  annoyed,  they  looked  into 
hers,  and  for  one  moment,  the  stage,  the  people,  all  dis- 
appeared before  her;  only  those  deep,  never-to-be-for- 
gotten eyes  were  visible  !  Then  Guarda  prompted  her. 
The  dialogue  was  continued,  and  when  she  found  cour- 
age to  glance  that  way  again  the  eyes  were  gone. 

The  eyes  belonged  to  a  dark,  tall  man,  in  a  traveling 
coat  and  cap,  who  had  entered  only  to  exchange  words 
with  the  artist,  North,  who  was  one  of  a  party  of  friends, 
who  had  come  fearfully  to  see  this  visionary  venture  of 
Orlane. 

The  stranger  had  hurriedly  exchanged  a  few  words, 
and  was  turning  to  leave,  when  his  eyes  fell  on  the  stage, 
with  its  beauty  of  setting  and  costuming,  the  mass  of 
purple,  crimson,  and  dark  stuffs  making  an  ever-changing 
background  for  that  picture  of  the  woman  in  clinging 
white  robes,  and  then  she  raised  her  eyes  until  they  met 
his,  and  stood  still,  wordless  for  an  instant,  and,  as  she 
continued  her  speech,  he  turned  to  his  friend  and  said  : 

"  Let  me  see  a  programme.  Who  is  that  woman  in 
white  ?" 

"  There  is  her  name,  Merze  Mignot,"  answered  North, 
handing  him  a  play-bill. 

"  Merze  Mignot  ?"  A  name  tells  little.  Who,  what  is 
she  ?" 

"Who  is  she?     Ah,  that  is  the   question  !"  chimed  in 


THE   STORY   OF   AN   ACTRESS.  147 

one  of  the  party.  "  But  she  is  a  very  clever  actress,  who 
has  played  here  two  seasons  in  obscurity,  and  now,  in  a 
twinkling,  makes  one  long  stride  for  first  favors,  and  wins 
them,  too.  Listen  to  that  !  She  has  caught  on  with  a 
vengeance." 

"  And  what  a  picture  she  is  with  all  that  tawny  bronze 
hair  loose.  Like  a  young  lioness  in  that  accusation 
scene  !" 

"  And  what  a  voice  !" 

"  And  what  a  foot !" 

The  stranger  turned  sharply,  as  if  to  speak,  at  the  last 
remark,  but,  instead,  he  only  said  to  North  : 

"  Well,  good-by,  old  fellow.  No,  I  can't  stay  over. 
Only  stopped  for  a  word  with  you.  Explain  to  Guarda 
my  haste,  that  I  was  only  passing  through,  and  that  I 
leave  to-night  for  Mexico.  Let  me  hear  from  you  some- 
times. Good-by." 

The  play  went  on  to  the  close  a  success.  The  people 
dispersed,  speaking  of  it  as  an  artistic  triumph,  often  with 
their  praise  coupling  the  name  of  Merze  Mignot.  In  one 
night  she  had  secured  a  footing  that  placed  her  above 
all  doubt  as  to  ability.  The  author  thanked  her,  all 
congratulated  her,  and  Guarda  was  unending  in  delight- 
ful praise.  But  she  turned  from  them  all,  tired,  pale 
from  exertion  and  sympathy  with  the  beautiful  character 
entrusted  to  her  care.  Only  to  Orlane  she  said  : 

"  In  the  third  act  there  was  a  tall,  dark,  gentleman  in 
the  box  with  Mr.  North.  I  think  he  left  after  that.  Will 
you  ask  his  name  for  me?  His  face  looks  familiar." 
And  then  to  Guarda  :  "  Take  me  home,  Massa  Mark,  I 
am  tired,  so  tired." 

And  in  her  heart  was  one  thought  that  drowned  all 
praise  from  the  rest.  "  It  was  his  face,  his  face  once 


148  MERZE : 

more  ;  but  it  looked  annoyed,  displeased.  Surely  the 
work  is  good  ;  they  all  say  so,  only  his  eyes  did  not  look 
glad." 

It  was  the  only  drop  of  bitterness  amidst  the  sweets  of 
her  success.  If  only  his  eyes  had  smiled  !  Verily,  she, 
the  priestess  inviolate  of  the  tragedy,  was  but  woman 
after  all. 

In  the  morning  a  note  came  to  her  from  Orlane. 

"  The  gentleman  is  Edward  M.  Drande,  a  journalist, 
just  returned  from  Scotland,  and  on  his  way  through  to 
Mexico  as  correspondent  from  there  to  a  New  York 
paper." 

That  was  all,  but  it  was  enough  to  assure  her  it  was  no 
imagination  on  her  part.  He  had  been  there,  and  a 
journalist,  a  writer  ;  that  is  what  she  would  have  thought 
him.  But  why  did  his  eyes  look  angered  ? 

And  on  a  train  leaving  the  city  on  the  opening  night 
of  "  Hesta"  sat  a  man  with  cap  pulled  low  over  his  eyes, 
his  face  moody,  contemptuous,  tired. 

"  So  this  is  how  she  is  ending.  I  had  thought  of  her 
as  somewhere  in  the  peace  of  a  homely,  girlish  life,  with 
at  least  a  remnant  of  memory  for  that  purity  of  life  I 
tried  to  instill.  Ah,  it  is,  after  all,  the  longing  for  great- 
ness that  has  drowned  all  else  ;  it  drowns  all  it  touches  ! 
I  had  thought  of  her  as  a  child  cared  for  by  friends,  and 
I  find  her  with  feet  and  bosom  bared  to  the  gaze  of  all 
who  can  pay  for  the  right  to  look." 


THE  STORY  OF  AN   ACTRESS.  149 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

It  was  an  artistic  success,  a  thorough  one,  but  the  one 
of  whom  most  mention  was  made  was  the  new  genius  that 
had  flashed  into  existence  among  them.  At  the  close 
of  the  season  many  flattering  offers  were  made  her,  all  of 
which  she  submitted  to  Guarda's  judgment. 

"I  will  never  quarrel  with  itagai'i,"  she  said,  lovingly. 
"  But  for  it  I  never  should  have  succeeded." 

From  Lawrence  they  had  received  letters  at  intervals. 
One  of  congratulation  came  to  her  when  he  heard  of 
her  success,  but  none  of  his  letters  were  very  bright  as 
to  his  own  affairs ;  several  hinted  at  a  possible  return 
East,  and,  finally,  Guarda  came  to  her  one  day  with  a 
letter  in  his  hand  and  not  a  very  happy  expression  on 
his  face. 

"  Fred  is  coming  back,"  he  said,  abruptly,  seating 
himself,  and  beating  a  tattoo  with  his  walking-stick  on 
the  floor. 

"  Coming  back  ?"  Merze  felt  that  Guarda  was  not 
pleased,  and  she  could  not  truthfully  say  that  she  herself 
was.  Yet  he  had  been  so  considerate — more  than  most 
men  would  have  been.  Her  knowledge  of  the  world 
had  taught  her  that.  And,  after  all,  why  should  he  not 
come  back  ?  She  could  not  expect  him  to  exile  himself 
forever  because  of  her. 

"Well,  you  expected  him  to  come  some  time."  Her 
tone  was  equivocal ;  she  was  not  pleased,  yet  could 
realize  the  injustice  of  displeasure. 

"  Certainly  ;  but  I  hoped  his  judgment  would  tell 


150  MERZE  : 

him  that  it  were  best  for  both  that  he  kept  away  from 
you." 

She  looked  questioningly  at  him.  "  He  has  done  so, 
and  I  think  he  always  will." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  of  that.  Read  the  finish  of 
that  letter." 

She  did  so.  "  If  Merze  accept  any  engagement  that 
will  take  her  out  of  New  York  have  her  send  me 
her  address  when  I  go  East.  I  wish  especially  to  see 
her." 

"  Well,"  she  said,  handing  it  back,  "  I  see  nothing  to 
disturb  ourselves  about  in  this,  Massa  Mark.  It  may  be 
some  business  for  which  it  is  necessary  to  see  me.  Do 
not  be  alarmed.  He  cares  for  me  too  little  to  annoy  me 
by  his  presence." 

"Perhaps,"  he  answered,  laconically;  "but  I  know 
Fred  and  the  rest  of  mankind  well  enough  to  know  there 
is  a  temptation  in  claiming  a  wife  who  has  made  of  her- 
self what  you  have." 

"  Nonsense  !"  And  she  laughed  a  little  uncertainly. 
"  Don't  be  gloomy,  but  tell  me  what  you  have  done 
about  the  choice  of  engagements.  Do  I  remain  at 
the  Chalet?  What  a  lot  of  business  troubles  I  have 
brought  you  !" 

But,  despite  her  light  tone,  her  thoughts  over  the 
letter  and  his  words  were  deeper  than  she  would  let 
him  see. 

"  Claim  her !"  Surely  he  would  never  do  that,  she 
thought.  Surely  Massa  Mark  must  be  wrong.  If  it 
were  for  the  money  he  could  have  it  all,  all  she  might 
make,  if  she  could  only  keep  her  freedom. 

Two  weeks  later  he  came,  not  nearly  so  debonnaire  as 
when  Merze  saw  him  first.  Bad  luck  had  been  gaining 


THE   STORY    OF   AN    ACTRESS.  151 

on  him  of  late,  as  it  gains  on  them  all  in  time.  His  eyes 
were  not  so  clear,  his  jaunty  manner  not  so  assured. 
Merze,  noting  the  change,  felt,  in  a  way,  sorry,  though  at 
the  same  time  thinking  :  "  He  was  kind  and  helpful  to 
me  when  he  could  be  so  ;  now  I  may  be  able  to  make 
some  return." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  a  question  of  Guarda's  ; 
"yes,  I  ran  away  from  bad  luck  out  there  in  'Frisco, 
and,  fearing  it  might  get  worse,  came  back  to  settle  up 
my  affairs,  make  my  will,  etc." 

But  he  did  not  say  it  very  jovially,  and,  at  the  door, 
spoke  a  few  significant  words  in  parting. 

"  To-morrow,  at  two,  I  should  like  to  see  you  alone, 
if  convenient." 

Merze  unhesitatingly  gave  consent  to  his  coming. 
She  owed  him  too  much  to  refuse.  But  she  wondered 
at  the  request.  Could  Guarda,  after  all,  be  right  ?  Her 
sleep  was  not  a  sound  one  that  night. 

He  came  promptly,  and  she  could  see  by  his  face,  that 
whatever  the  matter  to  be  discussed,  it  was  one  of  deep 
interest  to  him.  She  felt  herself,  trembling  with  a 
sickening  sort  of  dread  lest  it  should  be  of  herself  they 
were  to  speak,  and,  if  so,  she  could  think  of  nothing 
but  Guarda's  surmises.  Anything,  anything  would 
be  preferable  to  that.  He  did  not  keep  her  long  in 
suspense. 

"  Merze,"  he  began,  "you  have  always  seemed  to  me  a 
pretty  sensible  girl,  more  so  than  most  girls.  There  has 
never  been  any  nonsense  about  love  between  us,  so  I 
know  you  have  no  feelings  on  that  score  to  be  hurt  by 
what  I  am  going  to  tell  you." 

"  No,"  she  answered,  as  quietly  as  she  could.  His 
tone  told  her  Guarda's  suspicions  were  wrong,  surely 


152  MERZE  : 

wrong,  and  hope  after  fear  did  not  leave  her  voice  very 
steady.  "  No  ;  go  on.  What  is  it  ?" 

"  Have  you  ever  wondered  who  the  man  was  that  was 
shot  that  night  in  the  Kentucky  Hills  ?" 

Her  face  paled  as  she  thought  of  that  night's  incidents. 
It  had  always  been  a  dead  letter  between  them. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  ;  "but  I  thought  if  you  ever  cared 
to  tell  me  you  would  do  so  without  asking." 

"  Sensible  but  rare  trait  in  womanhood  !  Well,  that  is 
what  I  intend  to  tell  you  of  to-day.  I  am  going  down 
hill  fast.  I  never  had  such  infernal  luck  before.  Nothing 
seems  likely  to  check  it.  We  have  our  own  superstitions 
about  such  things,  and  I've  my  own,  perhaps.  Anyway, 
I  want  to  try  and  straighten  things  in  case  I  should  go 
under  ;  not  for  my  own  sake,  but  for  a  girl  who  would 
be  left  alone." 

"  A  girl — a  relative  ?"  Merze  was  puzzled.  She  had 
never  heard  either  Guarda  or  himself  speak  of  any 

"  No,  not  a  relative,"  he  answered.  "  But  I  will  tell 
you  the  story,  then  do  as  you  please.  Sixteen  years  ago 
there  was  a  wife  who  lived  more  unhappily -even  than 
you  lived  for  those  few  weeks  of  your  life  ;  for  hers  was 
of  longer  duration,  and  out  of  her  repugnance  to  the 
man  she  had  married  grew  a  love  for  some  one  else, 
who  was  kind,  and  seemed  to  understand  her.  Well,  they 
were  both  young — it  is  not  a  good  story  to  tell.  The 
memory  of  it  was  what  made  me  see  clearly  that  you 
also  would  never  be  contented,  and  I  did  not  want  your 
life  to  end  like  hers ;  neither  did  I  want  to  leave  you 
entirely  alone.  It  is  not  good  for  a  woman,  if  young. 
As  to  the  story  :  There  was  finally  an  elopement.  A  few 
months  afterward  a  child  was  born,  a  daughter.  For 
some  time  they  remained  abroad,  but  never  long  in  one 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  153 

locality.  The  husband  followed  them  from  place  to 
place.  She  was  happy,  however,  despite  that,  for  a 
time.  A  bright  butterfly  of  a  woman  she  was  ;  not  like 
you,  my  cold  Merze.  At  last  the  dread  began  to  wear 
on  her,  and  as  the  child  grew  she  began  to  think  of  its 
future,  of  the  disgrace,  and  all  the  rest  that  people  so 
seldom  remember  in  time.  She  had  thought  only  of  her 
own  unhappiness  when  she  fled,  and,  too  late,  the  child 
came  to  reproach  her.  Well,  she  was  not  strong-minded, 
and  those  remorseful  thoughts,  added  to  her  fear  of  him, 
filled  her  mind  until  there  was  room  for  nothing  else. 
She  became  morbid  almost  to  insanity,  and  the  doctors 
advised  a  return  to  her  own  country.  They  came  back, 
but  it  was  all  of  no  use.  The  child  had  to  be  taken 
from  her,  and,  at  last,  four  years  after  the  elopement, 
she  was  taken  to  a  madhouse,  and  has  never  been  out 
of  it  since." 

He  ceased  speaking  for  a  moment.  If  he  expected 
any  comment,  none  was  given.  Merze  sat  silent,  her 
chin  on  her  hand,  looking  at  him,  and  he  continued  : 

"  The  child  was  placed  in  a  convent  of  her  mother's 
faith,  as  she  had  often  requested  should  be  done  if  any- 
thing happened  to  her.  She  never  wanted  the  husband 
or  her  people  to  know  of  its  existence,  for,  in  the  face 
of  her  own  action,  she  knew  they  would  not  have  ac- 
cepted it  as  legitimate,  though  in  that  they  would  have 
been  wrong,  for  her  husband  was  its  father.  She  has 
remained  in  the  convent  ever  since.  More  than  likely 
she  will  remain  in  the  sisterhood,  but  she  is  to  be  given 
one  year  out  of  it,  in  order  to  judge  for  herself.  That, 
also,  was  a  request  of  her  mother.  During  that  year 
she  must  be  found  a  home  somewhere  in  a  family,  but 
her  guardian  does  not  know  any  woman  friend  to  whom 


154  MERZE : 

he  can  go  for  help  concerning  her.  Are  you  interested 
in  the  story  ?" 

"Very  much,"  replied  Merze,  briefly.     "Go  on." 

"There  is  little  left  to  tell.  That  man  in  Kentucky 
was  the  girl's  father.  It  is  needless  to  say  she  does  not 
know  how  he  died.  I  am  the  man  he  followed.  That 
is  all." 

"  I  guessed  as  much,"  she  said  slowly,  her  thoughts 
full  of  memories  that  confirmed  his  story,  and  full  of 
thankfulness  that  her  own  freedom  was  not  to  be 
touched.  "I  guessed  as  much.  What  do  you  want 
me  to  do  ?" 

"What  are  you  willing  to  do?"  he  asked,  looking  at 
her  curiously.  She  seemed  to  him  glad  in  some  way, 
as  if  anxious  to  help.  He  did  not  know  how  welcome 
this  story  was,  in  contrast  to  what  she  had  half  feared. 

"Everything  possible,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  his 
question. 

"  Knowing  all  ?" 

"  Knowing  all.  What  difference  does  that  make  ?  It 
does  not  lesson  my  debt  to  you  for  the  care  and  edu- 
cation I  received  when,  no  doubt,  it  was  often  difficult 
for  you  with  all  that  other  expense.  I  am  glad  you  told 
me  it  all,"  she  said,  gratefully.  "  It  makes  me  think 
better  of  you  in  many  ways.  I  feel  I  have  judged  you 
wrongly  at  times.  Do  others  know  ?" 

"Only  Guarda  knows  about  the  child.  It  was  from 
Greyholm  we — it  was  while  on  a  visit  there  she  left  her 
husband.  I  have  shunned  the  place  ever  since." 

"  Does  Massa  Mark  know  you  are  speaking  to  me  of 
it  ?"  she  asked  after  a  little. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  moodily,  "and  he  is  not  well 
pleased.  He  thinks  I  am  trying  to  lay  too  many  cares 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  155 

on  your  shoulders  ;  but  I  only  want  some  woman  for  her 
to  live  with  for  the  one  year,  or  one  to  have  a  sort  of 
care  over  her.  I  can't  do  it.  I  have  only  seen  her  at 
long  intervals,  and  am  a  stranger  to  her.  I  thought  you 
might  know  of  some  one  who  would  board  her,  and 
if  she  does  not  want  to  return  to  the  convent  she  must 
learn  in  some  way  to  make  her  own  living.  I  thought  I 
could  provide  better  for  her,  and  would  have,  if  luck 
hadn't  taken  such  a  turn  on  me  lately.  She  is  very 
pretty,  and,  if  she  cared  for  the  life,  might  do  well  on 
the  stage.  You  could  judge  best  of  that.  She  is  getting 
to  that  age  when  it  is  difficult  for  me  to  do  anything 
for  her  outside  of  the  convent  without  awkward  ques- 
tions. I  can't  marry  her  to  get  rid  of  her." 

"No,"  assented  Merze ;  "but  I'll  tell  you  what  you 
can  do  with  her — give  her  to  me." 

l<  Give  her  to  you  ?" 

"Yes.  So  far  as  taking  care  of  her  is  concerned. 
I  have  only  myself  to  provide  for,  and  I  am  earning 
more  money  than  I  spend.  I  never  had  a  near  girl  or 
woman  friend  in  my  life ;  perhaps  we  might  care  for 
each  other.  Anyway,  you  should  let  me  help  you  in 
this,  and  try  in  part  to  repay  your  care  of  me  when  I 
was  her  age." 

CHAPTER    XX. 

"  There  must  be  no  thought  of  the  stage  for  her.  She 
never  could  stand  it,  and  she  looks  too  much  a  young 
saint  ever  to  put  her  into  the  world's  whirlpool.  She 
is  of  the  sort  that  must  be  cared  for  with  gentleness  all 
the  days  of  their  lives." 

It  was  Merze  who  spoke  so  in  leaving  the  convent, 


156  MERZE : 

where  a  pair  of  childish  blue  eyes  had  looked  at  her  in 
wistful  wonder  and  admiration  when  she  claimed  the 
right  to  return  in  a  week  and  take  her  for  one  year  away 
from  books  and  the  routine  of  convent  life. 

"  And  you  like  her  ?"  asked  Lawrence,  looking  at  her 
questioningly. 

"  Like  her  !  Who  could  help  it  ?  She  is  a  little  white 
violet  of  a  girl,  with  all  the  serious  beauty  of  an  Elaine, 
the  purity  of  a  Godiva." 

"  You  are  a  curious  woman,  Merze,"  he  said,  after  a 
little  silence,  as  they  drove  down  the  shaded  road  to  the 
station  nearest  the  convent.  "  Do  you  know  there  is 
not  one  woman  in  a  hundred  would  do  what  you  are 
doing?" 

"  Perhaps  not.  I  hope  there  is  not  one  in  a  thousand 
who  has  had  such  a  life  as  mine,"  she  replied,  bitterly. 

"Yes;  it  has  not  always  been  pleasant,"  assented 
Lawrence,  easily;  but  it  has  turned  out  for  you  all  right 
at  last.  You  can  not  complain  now." 

She  did  not  answer.  Of  what  use  would  it  be  to  speak 
the  thoughts  brought  into  her  mind  by  the  pure  eyes  of 
the  child-woman  she  had  left — the  eyes  ever  sheltered 
from  evil  sights  or  knowledge  by  the  convent  walls,  the 
eyes  she  felt  were  taught  some  faith  that  gave  them 
higher  hopes  than  her  own  had  ever  known — her  own, 
that  halted  at  the  limits  of  this  world,  blinded  and  un- 
certain, longing,  yet  questioning  ?  And  within  the  white 
face  enveloping  the  life  just  left  she  felt  dimly  a  something 
that  had  never  touched  her  own  childhood,  the  peace 
conferred  by  the  kiss  of  God. 

She  was  rebellious  at  fate's  unkindness  in  taking  from 
her  the  things  needed  to  form  young  lives  for  perfect 
work.  She  had  studied,  gone  so  deep  into  things  theo- 


THE    STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  157 

logical  that  the  confusion  of  faiths  and  creeds  was  an  in- 
extricable mass,  out  of  which  she  had  walked  with  empty 
hands.  She  had  no  guide  but  that  of  curiosity,  and  it, 
she  felt,  had  failed  her.  Something  there  was  she  had 
missed  ;  what,  she  could  scarcely  define,  but  she  felt  that 
this  child  held  it  without  effort  in  her  little  hands — this 
child,  of  whom  she  was  to  take  charge.  And,  for  the 
first  time,  the  thought  came  into  her  heart,  "  Am  I  fit  ?" 

And  her  life,  for  all  its  success,  seemed  empty. 

Lawrence  had  given  her  entire  charge  of  the  girl,  had 
given  her  all  papers  in  his  possession  connected  with 
herself  and  her  mother,  receipted  bills,  and  such  things, 
that  had  been  accumulating  for  years. 

"  No  knowing  where  I  may  bring  up,"  he  had  said,  in 
handing  them  to  her.  '  They  are  all  together  there  ;  I 
brought  them  just  as  they  were  ;  keep  them  for  me." 

The  night  of  her  return  from  the  convent  Merze  sat 
long  talking  to  Guarda. 

"  She  is  a  young  saint,"  she  repeated,  "  and  would  be 
bewildered  and  lost  in  our  world.  He  was  foolish  to 
think  of  the  stage  for  her." 

"  Because  she  is  too  good  ?"  he  questioned,  ironically. 
The  idea  of  this  girl  was  an  annoyance  to  him. 

"  No,  Massa  Mark,  not  that.  I  think  none  can  be  too 
good  for  our  work.  It  requires  more  goodness  than 
other  professions,  for  its  temptations  are  greater.  But 
it  requires  a  knowledge  of  things  worldly  that  would 
only  disturb  the  illusions  of  a  girl  like  that.  Let  her 
keep  them  while  she  can.  I  envy  her  their  possession, 
but  I  shall  help  her  to  guard  them." 

"  And  pray  what  do  you  intend  to  do  with  her  if  the 
stage  is  not  to  gain  her?" 

"  I  scarcely  know,"  she   replied.     The  question   was 


158  MERZE 

one  she  had  not  yet  answered  for  herself.  "  I  had 
thought  to  have  her  live  with  me  here,  but  that  was  be- 
fore I  had  seen  her.  Some  quiet  place  in  the  country 
would  suit  her  best.  In  the  summers  we  can  be  together; 
but  not  while  I  play,  not,  at  least,  until  she  sees  more  of 
the  world." 

"  Summers  !"  he  ejaculated.  "  My  dear  Merze,  you 
are  an  enthusiast  on  this  question.  You  seem  to  think 
you  are  sure  to  pass  scores  of  summers  together,  yet  you 
have  not  known  her  one  day.  You  say  she  is  pretty. 
Then  the  chances  are  that  two  summers  will  see  her 
married." 

"Don't!"  she  said,  throwing  out  her  hand,  "don't 
prophesy  such  things.  She  is  too  good  for  that." 

"Ah,  my  Merze,"  he  said,  kindly,  taking  the  hand  in 
his,  "  do  not  think  so  much  over  a  thing  that  is  past, 
that  you  can  not  help.  Are  you  never  to  forget  ?" 

"  Would  you  care  any  more  for  me  if  I  were  one  who 
could  forget  easier?"  she  returned.  " No,  I  am  sure  you 
would  not,  Massa  Mark.  But  of  Crista.  It  is  a  pretty 
name,  don't  you  think  so  ?  Crista  Loring  ;  it  seems  to 
suit  her  so  well.  Looking  at  her,  one  could  not  imagine 
her  having  any  kinship  with  such  a  mother.  Do  you 
remember  that  little  village  in  Delaware,  on  the  bay, 
where  you  sent  me  last  summer  when  I  was  tired  out 
from  the  winter's  work  ?  That  would  surely  be  a  good 
place  to  send  her.  I  stopped  with  the  widow  of  a  phy- 
sician while  there — very  pleasant  people,  and  the  daugh- 
ters are  near  her  age.  They  would  be  good  companions 
for  her.  She  could  see  a  little  of  world-life  there  in  a 
quiet  way,  and  the  place  will  be  sure  to  please  her,  it  is 
so  lovely.  Just  now  it  is  the  best  I  can  think  of.  How 
do  you  like  my  idea  ?" 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  159 

"  As  well  as  any  other,  since  you  have  made  up  your 
mind  to  take  such  an  annoyance  on  your  hands,"  he 
answered,  grumblingly.  "  From  the  first,  I  have  opposed 
it.  Let  Fred  himself  bear  the  weight  of  his  own  follies. 
He  is  changing  much  from  what  he  was,  else  he  would 
never  have  come  to  you  about  it." 

"  Changing  !     How  ?" 

"  For  the  worse,  decidedly.  He  accepts  your  gener- 
osity in  this  affair  as  a  thing  of  course.  It  may  be  bad 
luck  that  makes  him  weaker,  and  it  may  be  dissipation. 
He  never  used  to  drink  ;  now,  I  am  not  so  sure.  It 
would  be  better  for  all  if  he  kept  away  entirely." 

"  Don't  you  think,  Massa  Mark,"  she  said,  hesitat- 
ingly, "  that  it  would  be  better  if  we  could  help  him  to 
something  creditable  to  do  ?" 

Guarda  turned  on  her  sharply. 

"  So  he  has  been  speaking  to  you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  in  the  tone  of  one  acknowledging 
a  thing  against  her  will. 

The  old  man  jumped  up  angrily,  and  shambled  over 
to  the  window. 

"  I  expected  it.  What  did  I  tell  you  ?"  he  demanded. 
She  made  him  no  answer.  Directly  he  turned  and  came 
back,  standing  looking  at  her,  with  varying  emotions  in 
his  whimsical  old  face. 

"  Well,  we  have  him  with  us,  do  we  ?  That  is  well  for 
Mephisto's  tastes.  I  see  the  road  open  for  plenty  of 
misery  to  come.  Just  in  my  line  ;  go  ahead." 

"  I  only  said  I  would  think  of  it,"  she  said,  in  answer 
to  his  sarcasm. 

"Which  is  equal  to  saying  yes,  and  so  he  will 
take  it." 

"  Now,  don't  be  angry,  Mephisto,"  she  said,  reaching 


1GO  MERZE : 

out  her  hand  and  taking  his.  He  sat  down  again  beside 
her  ;  but  his  face  was  very  gloomy. 

"  I  am  not  angry,  Merze  ;  but  however  clever  you 
are  in  your  profession,  in  some  other  things  you  are  a 
fool.  You  have  some  very  exaggerated  ideas  of  grati- 
tude toward  him  that,  if  persisted  in,  will  cause  you 
trouble." 

"  Massa  Mark,  I  have  great  reason  to  be  grateful," 
she  answered,  earnestly,  "more  than  you  are  aware  of,  I 
think.  He  gave  me  what  education  I  have  ;  I  was  his 
wife,  yet  he  let  me  go  free  at  my  own  request." 

"Yes,"  assented  the  old  man,  curtly,  "and  bound  you 
by  a  nonsensical  promise  that  may  also  cause  you  annoy- 
ance if  you  consider  it  binding." 

"  I  have  made  no  promises — I  do  not  consider  so,"  she 
said,  more  coldly  than  any  words  had  ever  been  spoken 
between  them. 

"  Look  here,  my  child,"  shaking  his  ringer  chidingly  at 
her,  '•  there  must  be  no  anger  over  this  ;  the  subject  is 
not  worth  it.  If  you  cared  for  each  other  I  would  not 
say  one  word,  but  you  do  not ;  so  why  hold  yourself 
bound  in  any  way  to  such  a  life  ;  he  has  thrown  away  his 
chances  right  and  left  for  years.  The  fault  is  his  own 
that  he  is  empty-handed  now." 

"  Perhaps,"  she  assented.  "  I  do  not  defend  him; 
only  he  was  dada's  friend  ;  he  has  been  mine,  and  I 
should  do  what  I  can  in  return.  And,  after  all,  Massa 
Mark,  there  is  one  thing  to  be  commended  in  him — his 
loyalty  to  that  child  left  in  his  charge  and  his  truth  to 
that  one  woman." 

"Ah,"  and  he  smiled  sarcastically,  "that  is  what 
touches  you,  my  romance-loving  Merze  !  I  wondered 
why  all  this  sympathy." 


THE    STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  161 

"  He  did  not  try  to  win  sympathy  in  telling  me  the 
story.  It  was  told  simply  as  a  matter  of  business  ;  but 
his  manner  did  not  hide  from  me  the  deep  love  he  must 
have  had  for  her,  and  I  respect  him  for  his  truth  to  it. 
It  showed  me  clearly,  more  so  than  ever,  that  I  need 
never  fear  any  claims  of  his." 

"And  he  spoke  to  you  of  the  business  manage- 
ment ?" 

"  Yes  ;  he  heard  they  wanted  a  new  man  at  the  Chalet, 
and  asked  if  I  would  object  to  him  taking  the  position 
if  he  could  get  it.  He  has  done  such  work  before,  he 
says,  so  what  am  I  to  do  ?  Tell  him,  after  all  his  kind- 
ness to  me,  that  I  dislike  him  so  much  I  could  not 
endure  him  in  the  same  theatre  ?  That  would  surely  be 
a  poor  return.  And  it  does  not  matter  so  much ;  our 
work  need  not  interfere  with  each  other.  I  will  not  have 
him  think  me  ungrateful,  and — I  will  not  object." 

The  last,  though  spoken  kindly,  was  very  decided,  and 
Guarda  saw  she  meant  it. 

"Well,  I  shall  say  no  more,"  he  answered,  seeing  that 
the  case  was  hopeless  against  what  he  deemed  her  quixotic 
ideas  ;  "  only  if  harm  come  of  it  I  can  sit  in  the  corner 
and  chuckle,  saying  :  '  I  told  you  so.' ' 

"  Massa  Mark,"  she  said,  after  a  little  while,  "  I  have 
been  poor,  very  poor,  often.  I  have  seen  dada  discour- 
aged, just  as  Lawrence  is  now,  over  a  streak  of  bad 
luck,  only  dada's  streaks,  toward  the  last,  had  no  end- 
ing. But  I  have  seen  him  so  tired,  so  discouraged,  that 
I  think  if  anyone  had  given  him  a  chance  of  something 
better  it  might  have  changed  him  into  a  different  man. 
Well,  I  have  been  thinking  about  it  to-day.  Lawrence 
seems  tired  of  his  profession,  and  anxious  to  get  at 
something  that  will  'change  his  luck,'  as  he  says.  And, 
11 


162  MERZE  : 

perhaps,  if  he  were  encouraged  in  it  he  might  never 
return  to  the  old  work." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Guarda  sarcastically  ;  "but  there  is  a 
true  saying  about  teaching  old  dogs  new  tricks.  Fred  is 
not  a  young  one  by  any  means." 

"  I  know  ;  but  I — I  feel — I  have  always  felt,  in  a  way, 
ashamed  that  I  could  give  nothing  but  gratitude  for  his 
kindness,  and  now,  if  I  see  any  way  in  which  I  could 
help  him  to  a  more  honest  life,  I  think  it  would  be  only 
my  duty  to  put  my  own  feelings  aside  and  do  it." 

"  Ah,  Merze,  Merze  !"  he  said,  kindly,  wistfully,  "  have 
you  so  little  to  fill  your  life  that  you  must  conjure  up 
such  imaginary  duties  and  deem  them  sacred  ?  An 
artist  should  have  no  care  but  Art." 

"  And  I,"  she  answered,  "  have  nothing  that  will 
detract  from  my  work.  I  have  only  the  girl  Crista,  and 
you,  Massa  Mark — you  always.  As  to  him,  if  he  cares 
to  make  an  honest  living,  I  only  ask  that  he  be  encour- 
aged in  it,  and  you  yourself  have  never  disliked  him." 

"  No,  not  entirely.  Like  everyone,  he  has  some 
redeeming  points.  But  I  dislike  to  see  you  placed  in 
such  a  position,  surely  the  strangest  a  woman  ever  had 
to  fill,  and  I  feel  that  the  end  is  not  yet." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Merze  went  alone  to  the  convent  for  Crista,  and  was 
met  with  shy,  glad  eyes  in  the  stately,  sunny  reception 
room. 

"  I  was  watching  for  you  from  the  window  until  Sister 
Paul  told  me  I  must  not  be  impatient,  and  I  am  so  glad 
you  have  come  at  last,"  she  said,  frankly,  extending  both 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  163 

hands  to  this  lady  who  was  so  unlike  those  about  her — 
so  young,  yet  so  self-possessed,  and  apparently  so  much 
of  the  world  in  her  manner. 

"  You  are  surely  not  so  anxious  to  get  away  from  this 
beautiful  place  ?"  asked  Merze. 

"  Ah,  no,  not  that !  I  am  to  come  back,  you  know,  at 
the  end  of  the  year  if  I  choose,  and  I  think  I  shall  ;  it  is 
my  home  you  see.  But  you  are  the  only  lady  who  has 
ever  come  to  see  me  in  all  the  time,  and  you  were  so 
kind  I  wanted  to  see  you  again,"  and  the  blue  eyes  were 
so  loving,  so  lovable  that  Merze  felt  the  charge  would  be 
light  despite  Guarda's  grumbling. 

"But  your  life  has  been  happy  here?"  holding  the 
girl's  hand  and  drawing  her  down  beside  her. 

"  Very  happy.  I  would  never  leave  for  even  one  day, 
only  they  say  it  is  always  best.  Sister  Borgia  has  been 
here  all  her  life  ;  she  is  sixty,  and  always  says  fifty 
years  of  her  life  has  been  spent  in  Heaven.  I  wonder 
sometimes  if  in  the  world  there  are  many  who  say 
that." 

Merze  did  not  answer,  but  gave  her  some  message 
from  Mr.  Lawrence,  whom  Crista  only  knew  as  her 
guardian,  as  there  seemed  to  be  but  little  acquaintance 
between  them.  Her  parents  she  thought  both  dead. 

'•Some  of  the  girls  questioned  me  about  you,"  she 
said,  shyly,  "and  asked  if  you  were  a  relative.  I  could 
only  tell  them  your  name,  Miss  Mignot,  and  that  Mr. 
Lawrence  said  you  would  be  my  friend,  for  I  knew  no 
more.  Are  you  a  relative  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  am  not.  But  I 
hope  we  shall  be  great  friends,"  answered  Merze,  noting 
the  disappointment  in  Crista's  face. 

"  I  am  sorry,  too,"  said  the  girl,  regretfully,  "  every- 


1G4  MERZE  : 

one  seems  to  have  some  relative  somewhere  but  me.  I 
have  wished  so  often  for  one." 

"Well,  then,"  smiled  Merze,  "we  will  pretend  you 
have  one.  I  also  am  alone,  with  neither  brother  nor 
sister.  Why  can  not  we  be  sisters  ?" 

"  Sisters  !  would  you  ?"  she  asked,  delightedly.  "  I 
would  feel  then  on  my  return  that  there  was  someone  in 
the  world  who  belonged  to  me — someone  I  knew  to  pray 
for." 

"  Yes,  you  can  pray  for  me  ;  I  have  needed  prayers 
such  as  yours  often.  I  may  need  them  again,"  answered 
Merze,  clasping  closer  the  little  hand.  "If  any  are 
heard  surely  yours  will  be." 

"  They  are  always  heard  ;  we  must  all  know  that,  else 
what  hope  would  we  have  to  live  by  ?"  asked  Crista,  with 
sweet  seriousness  that  was  charming  to  Merze.  She  had 
seen  nothing  like  it ;  this  free,  unembarrassed  manner  in 
speaking  of  her  prayers  or  her  hope  was  something  she 
had  never  met  among  her  own  schoolmates.  If  they 
prayed,  as  no  doubt  many  of  them  did,  she  felt  it  was 
not  with  the  earnestness  of  this  one. 

The  Superior,  a  sweet,  serene-faced  woman,  came  in 
to  speak  a  few  gracious  words  to  the  visitor,  and,  in 
bidding  good-by  to  Crista,  kissed  her  fondly  with  words 
of  earnest  blessing.  And  as  the  girl  with  tear-dimmed 
eyes  took  farewell  of  the  others,  the  mother  spoke  aside 
a  moment  with  Merze. 

"She  has  grown  very  dear  to  us  all,  and  our  prayers 
will  always  be  that  she  shall  be  kept  unspotted  from  the 
world  ;  souls  like  hers  are  not  fit  for  it.  God  help  you 
to  keep  her  in  her  childish  faith  and  innocence  until  she 
comes  back  to  us.  If  she  does  not  come  we  will  hope  that 
the  hands  caring  for  her  will  always  be  kind  ones." 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  165 

A  handclasp  was  Merze's  answer,  and  then  they 
passed  through  the  gates  out  into  the  shady  road  leading 
to  the  station.  Crista  watched  the  roof  through  the 
trees  with  tear-wet  eyes. 

"  It  seems  silly  to  you,  perhaps,"  she  said  depreca- 
tingly  to  Merze.  "  I  am  too  big  to  cry,  I  suppose,  I  was 
sixteen  my  last  birthday.  But  I  loved  them  so  much  , 
they  were  all  so  good  to  me." 

"  I  do  not  think  it  is  silly  at  all ;  it  is  only  natural,'' 
answered  Merze,  but  at  the  same  time  thinking,  "  and  I, 
I  never  in  my  life  cried  at  separation  from  any  living 
thing.  Her  life  without  kindred  is  not  as  empty  as 
mine  was  ;  she  has  her  faith  and  the  love  of  friends. 
And  I,  even  now,  have  only  people's  admiration." 

"  Am  I  to  call  you  Miss  Mignot  now  that  we  are 
sisters  ?"  asked  Crista,  after  they  were  seated  in  the  car 
moving  swiftly  south  toward  Delaware.  Merze  smiled  at 
the  attempt  to  learn  her  other  name. 

"  Oh,  no  !"  she  replied,  "  my  name  is  Merze  ;  you  can 
call  me  that  without  the  Miss." 

"  Merze  ?    Is  that  from  Mercy  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  from,  dear,"  and  a  swift 
shadow  darkened  her  eyes  at  the  remembrance  of  where 
even  her  name  had  come  from. 

"  I  think  it  must  be  from  Mercy,"  said  Crista,  medita- 
tively. "  It  is  a  sweet  name.  We  had  a  sister  Mercy  who 
died ;  young  she  was,  and  so  pretty.  We  loved  each 
other  dearly.  I,  I  should  like  to  think  you  were  a  Mercy, 
too." 

"Well,  have  it  so,"  replied  Merze,  carelessly.  "I  will 
be  your  sister  Mercy  to  you  if  you  prefer  it." 

"Will  you?  Ah,  that  would  be  very  good  of  you  !" 
said  the  girl,  gratefully,  "  and  when  I  speak  the  name  it 


166  MERZE : 

will  seem  as  if  I  had  known  you  a  long  time.  So  I  will 
have  something  besides  memories  from  the  convent  with 
me  all  the  time." 

"  Not  all  the  time,"  answered  Merze.  "  Not  just  yet, 
at  least.  I  can  not  see  you  often  at  present.  I  am  tak- 
ing you  to  a  lady  who  has  two  daughters  almost  your 
age.  I  hope  you  will  be  contented  •  but  I  will  have  to 
be  away." 

"  I  am  so  sorry.  I  hoped  I  would  be  with  you,"  and 
the  red  mouth  quivered  a  little  at  the  thought  of  being 
separated  from  her  new-found  friend  and  sister. 

"  I  should  be  glad  if  it  could  be  so,"  answered  Merze, 
regretfully,  "  but  I  have  work  to  do  that  will  prevent  it. 
I  shall  try  to  see  you  as  often  as  possible  this  summer, 
but  when  I  am  too  busy  to  come  I  shall  expect  long  let- 
ters. And  if  at  any  time  you  are  not  contented,  let  me 
know  at  once. 

Crista  said  no  more,  but  opened  her  eyes  a  little  when 
Merze  spoke  of  work.  She  wondered  what  work  this 
wonderfully  dressed  lady  could  do,  for  to  her  everything 
seemed  bright  and  rich  in  contrast  to  the  quiet  tones  of 
the  convent  habit. 

Two  girlish  faces  were  watching  from  the  window  of 
the  porticoed  house  on  the  bay  as  Crista  walked  beside 
her  new  sister  up  the  path  lined  with  graceful  elms.  As 
they  neared  the  steps  the  faces  made  a  rush  for  the  door, 
and  stood  pleased,  yet  a  little  shyness  showing  in 
their  flushed  cheeks — round  cheeks  with  health's  own 
beauty  in  them.  Crista  looked  like  a  white  lily  beside 
them. 

"  Stella,  Edie,  this  is  your  new  companion,  Crista 
Loring,"  said  Merze,  and  then  turned  to  speak  to  a 
motherly  looking  lady  who  entered  with  a  hearty  welcome 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  167 

in  her  cheery  voice,  and  whom  she  mentioned  to  Crista 
as  Mrs.  Nelson. 

The  girls  at  once  took  possession  of  Crista,  showing 
her  the  room  which  was  to  be  hers,  and  in  which  were 
many  things  selected  by  Merze  herself,  with  all  the  drap- 
eries of  inexpensive  but  pretty  pink  and  white  stuff,  a 
small  shelf  filled  with  books,  in  all  of  which  her  name  was 
written,  and  from  which  they  could  scarcely  draw  her  to 
look  at  their  birds,  their  garden,  and  the  lovely  view  down 
the  bay,  where  white  sails  dipped  lazily  over  the  blue 
water. 

In  the  pretty,  homely  sitting-room  Merze  and  Mrs. 
Nelson  were  left  alone. 

"  And  she  is  to  return  to  the  convent,  you  say  ?"  asked 
the  latter,  glancing  out  toward  the  girls,  one  on  each  side 
of  Crista,  taking  her  down  to  the  boat  house. 

"  That  is  not  decided  ;  her  guardian  wants  her  to  see  a 
little  of  worldly  life  first,  then  she  can  choose  for  herself. 
She  has  no  relatives,  I  can  not  take  her  with  me,  and  I 
want  a  home  for  her  where  she  can  enjoy  companions  of 
her  own  age.  I  would  like  her  to  ride,  to  row,  to  go  to 
any  amusements  you  would  have  your  own  daughters 
attend,  to  enjoy  her  life  in  every  way  possible  during  her 
stay  ;  I  do  not  fear  she  will  abuse  her  privileges." 

"  I  feel  sure  she  will  not ;  her  face  shows  that.  It  is 
very  subdued  beside  the  exuberance  of  my  own  girls.  I 
think  they  will  be  a  mutual  benefit  to  each  other." 

"  And  another  thing  ;  my  profession  as  you  know,  is 
theatrical.  She  only  knows  that  I  work  and  travel,  and 
for  the  present  I  don't  care  to  have  her  know  more.  Her 
training  may  have  prejudiced  her — I  have  not  known  her 
long  enough  to  be  sure — and  I  prefer  to  begin  our  friend- 
ship with  no  feeling  of  antipathy  between  us.  After  she 


168  MERZE : 

has  seen  and  known  a  little  more  I  shall  tell  her,  but  not 
at  present." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Nelson  quietly,  "  and  I  think 
you  are  quite  right." 

Merze  remained  two  days,  not  caring  to  leave  until  the 
girl  felt  at  home  in  her  new  quarters,  and  it  was  difficult 
to  be  a  stranger  long  with  the  two  cheery  girls  as  com- 
panions. 

"I  feel  I  shall  be  very  happy  here,  sister  Mercy,"  she 
said  that  night  as  she  lay  in  her  pink  covered  bed,  a 
little  tired  with  the  day's  excitement,  "  and  they  are  so 
kind,  not  quietly,  but  with  all  their  hearts.  And  then  the 
books  there  !  I  could  sit  all  night  looking  at  them.  You 
have  been  very,  very  good  to  me." 

"  I  hope  everyone  will  always  be,"  said  Merze,  kissing 
her  good-night,  and  thinking  "  Massa  Mark  is  right ; 
one's  self  is  not  enough  ;  we  must  love  something." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"And  he  is  to  remain  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  he  is  to  remain,"  answered  Guarda,  snappishly, 
smoothing  out  a  fold  in  his  newspaper  with  a  vicious  slap 
of  the  hand. 

Merze  laughed  as  she  looked  at  him.  "  What  a  bear 
you  are  getting  to  be,  Massa  Mark  ;  why  is  it  ?  In  the 
old  days  you  were  gentle  always,  I  was  then  sure  of  a 
smile,  and  now — well,  I  have  to  coax  for  them  and  they 
are  very  wintry  sometimes." 

"  In  the  old  days,"  he  echoed.  "Yes  ;  your  heart  was 
all  in  your  work  then,  I  had  great  ambitions  for  you. 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  169 

Now  you  will  fill  your  head  with  imaginary  duties  foreign 
to  your  art.  You  give  many  of  your  thoughts  to  a  child 
who  is  nothing  to  you,  but  who  makes  you  dissatisfied 
with  yourself.  Don't  deny  it,"  as  she  raised  her  head 
in  protest,  "I  know  your  face  so  well,  my  Merze;  it 
was  very  dreamy,  very  thoughtful,  on  your  return,  not 
nearly  so  much  interested  in  business.  You  had  seen  a 
phase  of  life  never  shown  you  before  ;  it  has  a  picturesque 
holiness  about  it,  and  is  to  you  a  beautiful  picture  in 
subdued  tints,  restful  to  the  senses,  making  you  feel  as 
you  gaze  that  all  color  is  vulgar  in  comparison.  Don't 
I  know  you  ?  Now  listen.  Suppose  that  stately,  sweet- 
faced,  sweet-voiced  '  mother '  who  talked  to  you  inside 
that  vine-covered  convent  had  been  short,  squatty,  with 
coarse  hands,  and  a  broad  brogue  ;  suppose  their  habits 
were  of  red  and  green  ;  suppose  the  girl  had  been  shock- 
headed,  with  a  squint  in  her  eyes ;  suppose " 

"There,  there,  Mephisto,"  laughed  Merze,  "no  more 
if  you  love  me  ;  don't  spoil  all  my  beautiful  ideas.  They 
may  be  superficial,  but  they  were  a  pleasure  to  me ; 
don't  destroy  all  my  illusions." 

"  I  want  to  awaken  you  from  any  that  may  take  thoughts 
from  your  work.  Do  you  know  the  opening  date  was 
settled  last  night?" 

"  No  ;  when  is  it  to  be  ?" 

"The  second  of  September.  Your  first  experience 
with  a  stock  company  as  a  star." 

And  then  they  talked  of  the  costumes,  the  company, 
and  the  play,  themes  on  which  there  was  always  some- 
thing to  be  said. 

Orlane  had  translated  a  late  Parisian  success  for  her 
in  which  she  was  to  be  the  attraction.  A  manager  is 
always  willing  to  risk  his  money  on  an  undoubted  sue- 


170  MERZE  : 

cess,  and  her  portrayal  of  Hesta  had  been  a  revelation  in 
a  way.  The  public,  anxious  to  see  her  in  something  else, 
were  not  surprised  when  the  announcement  was  made 
that  she  was  to  appear  in  a  play  by  a  noted  French 
author,  and  that  the  manager  of  the  Chalet  contracted 
with  her  for  the  coming  season. 

Lawrence  she  seldom  saw,  but  when  she  did  she  no- 
ticed that  he  looked  much  better.  The  many  business 
arrangements,  letter  writing,  etc.,  kept  him  busy,  and 
seemed  to  give  him  back  a  little  of  his  old  confidence  in 
his  luck.  Letters  came  regularly  from  Crista — loving, 
childish  letters  filled  with  thanks  for  her  many  pleasures. 
They  were  happiness  to  Merze,  making  her  feel  that 
one  creature  at  least  was  benefited  through  herself,  and 
was  in  a  way  dependent  on  her  making  her  feel  that  she 
had  something  to  take  care  of. 

She  kept  the  same  unpretentious  rooms  as  at  first, 
refusing  to  move  to  a  more  fashionable  neighborhood, 
though  even  Guarda  advised  it. 

"  No,"  she  said,  decidedly,  "  I  have  become  attached 
to  it ;  no  other  would  feel  so  home-like.  It  was  here  I 
first  earned  an  independence,  and  I  am  not  fickle  in  my 
attachments." 

But  she  allowed  herself  more  comforts  and  luxuries 
than  of  old  ;  etchings,  engravings,  and  bric-a-brac  found 
their  way  into  her  little  parlor,  and  made  it  pretty  and 
bright  for  the  admiration  of  many  who  called  now,  but  to 
whom  she  was  unknown  before  Hesta. 

She  was  in  a  way  a  mystery  to  people,  but  none  the  less 
attractive.  Her  only  personal  friend  seemed  to  be 
Guarda,  and  of  him,  with  all  his  years  among  them,  none 
knew  much.  Some  even  thought  her  his  daughter  ;  but 
her  years  of  self-repression  in  childhood  did  not  tend  to 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  171 

make  her  communicative  now,  and  of  her  native  place 
none  heard  her  speak. 

"  I  am  from  the  West,"  she  had  said  to  some,  and  said 
no  more. 

She  always  read  the  news  from  Mexico  until  Guarda 
laughed  at  her. 

"You  are  getting  curious  as  the  rest  of  your  sex,"  he 
said  one  day,  "  you  who  used  scarcely  glance  at  a  daily. 
You  are  not  getting  up  an  interest  in  foreign  politics,  are 
you  ?  Don't,  for  our  own  political  affairs  are  in  a  deep 
enough  muddle  ;  but  cross  the  water  in  any  direction  and 
you  find  it  deeper." 

She  laid  down  the  paper  carelessly,  and  he  picked  it 
up.  Often  she  wondered  at  her  own  interest  in  this 
stranger.  He  had  been  kind — most  kind  that  day,  but, 
after  all,  it  was  one  day  in  a  child's  life,  though  its  color- 
ing had  tinged  the  rest  of  her  days  ever  since.  She  felt 
a  half-scorn  of  herself  for  caring  about  the  displeasure  in 
his  eyes  that  night  of  Hesta. 

"Why  should  I  care?"  she  asked  herself,  impatiently. 
"  There  were  plenty  more  to  praise  my  work.  Perhaps 
it  might  be  well  for  me  to  meet  him  some  time.  I  fear  I 
would  find  my  girlish  ideal  had  very  shapeless  clay  feet. 
Well,  ideals  and  illusions  of  that  sort  are  good  for  chil- 
dren, if  it  makes  them  ambitious,  as  it  did  me,  but  women 
can  not  afford  to  harbor  them.  I  had  nothing  else — no 
other  friend  ;  that  was,  I  suppose,  the  only  reason  I 
remembered  him  so  well.  Yet  he,  he  sees  me  here,  but 
does  not  care  enough  to  remember  or  to  speak." 

That  one  thought  rankled  deeper  than  she  would 
acknowledge  to  herself ;  that  it  was  which  brought  up 
those  soliloquies  so  often  in  her  mind,  in  which  she 
persuaded  herself  after  all  that  her  fancies  and  thoughts 


172  MERZE  : 

of  him  were  childish  and  that  they  were  all  over  years 
ago. 

Yet  she  still  read  those  weekly  letters  from  Mexico, 
letters  so  well  constructed,  and  so  brilliantly  descriptive 
that  she  found  them  copied  and  re-copied  in  many 
papers,  the  only  signature  to  them  being  Drande. 

This  day  she  sat  silent,  only  the  crackle  of  the  news- 
paper Guarda  had  filched  breaking  the  quiet.  An  ex- 
clamation from  him  raised  her  eyes.  He  was  evidently 
pleased  over  something. 

"  Drande  is  coming  back  from  Mexico,''  he  announced 

"Drande!"  she  echoed  She  had  just  been  thinking 
of  him.  She  never  before  had  heard  Guarda  mention 
the  name,  and  it  seemed  strange  that  he  should  now. 
Could  he  guess  ?  but  no,  that  was  impossible.  "  Drande!" 
she  repeated,  '•'  and  who  is  he  ?" 

"  Have  I  never  spoken  of  him  ?  Ah,  no,  he  has  been 
away  so  long,  first  in  Europe  two  years,  now  in  Mexico 
for  some  time.  He  is  a  friend  of  mine,  if  I  own  such  a 
thing.  A  writer  and  a  clever  one,  I  think.  You  must 
have  seen  some  of  his  correspondence  from  Mexico  ;  it 
is  for  this  paper  he  was  working." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  quietly.  "I  have  read  them.  And 
he  is  a  friend  of  yours,  and  is  coming  back  here  ?" 

"  Certainly,  here  ;  this  is  his  farewell  letter,  see  ?  It 
says  so.  He  may  be  here  soon,  any  time  now." 

"And  you  care  for  him  so  much  ?  I  shall  be  jealous 
and  wish  him  back  in  Mexico." 

"  Not  when  you  see  him.  I  think  you  would  like  each 
other.  It  is  a  long  time  since  I  had  letters  from  him. 
He  used  to  write  very  often,  but  now  I  am  getting  too 
old  to  answer  many,  so  he  only  sends  me  papers  lately  or 
kind  wishes  by  friends.  The  opening  night  of  "  Hesta  " 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  173 

he  was  in  front  a  moment,  but  on  business.  He  left  a 
kind  word  for  me,  but  could  not  wait  to  speak." 

She  sat  long  after  Guarda  had  gone,  thinking  over  what 
he  had  said.  They  were  friends  ;  then  surely  she  must 
meet  him — and  how  ?  Would  he  care  to  remember  ?  She 
found  herself  wondering,  debating  about  this  man  whose 
opinion  she  had  just  persuaded  herself  was  of  no  interest 
to  her. 

"  Clever,  is  he  ?"  she  thought,  rising  and  looking  at  her- 
self in  the  mirror.  "  Well,  the  people  say  the  same  of 
me;  my  standing  is  as  much  assured  as  his  own,  let  him 
look  ever  so  contemptuous." 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

A  week  later  she  attended,  with  Guarda,  a  benefit  at 
one  of  the  theatres — a  professional  affair  for  some  needy 
brother  worker — and  who  has  ever  found  them,  as  an 
organization,  with  closed  ears  when  help  was  needed  ? 
It  was  almost  entirely  a  theatrical  audience,  and  the 
cheeriest  one  that  can  be  imagined.  There  is  always 
someone  with  a  nod  and  a  smile  for  everyone.  There 
are  the  closest  of  hand-clasps  at  meeting,  and  the  most 
earnest  of  "  God  bless  you,  old  friends,"  at  parting. 
Their  partings  so  often  are  so  wide — the  width  of  the 
world  and  for  life,  many  have  found  them,  and  it  lends 
a  tenderness  to  many  a  laughing  voice  from  which  an 
outsider  would  expect  nothing  but  jests. 

It  was  always  a  pleasure  to  Merze  to  see  them  on  any 
occasion  of  this  kind.  "  Surely,  such  an  audience  would 
be  an  inspiration  to  any  actor,"  she  thought,  looking  out 
on  the  bright,  intelligent  faces.  She  had  a  box,  and  from 


174  MERZE  ' 

it  could  see  more  than  half  the  house.  Guarda  had 
gone  out  to  speak  to  friends  at  th«  door.  The  foot- 
lights flashing  up  quickly  was  the  signal  for  silence  of 
orchestra  and  audience.  She  glanced  out  through  the 
mass  at  the  door  in  hopes  of  seeing  him.  He  himself 
detested  the  moving  of  people  to  seats  when  the  curtain 
was  up,  but  he  surely  would  transgress  this  time  ;  but  he 
was  not  to  be  seen. 

"  Someone  has  button-holed  him,  as  he  terms  it,"  she 
thought,  smiling,  as  she  knew  he  would  be  impatient  in 
losing  part  of  the  act.  Then  she  turned  to  the  stage  and 
forgot  about  him  in  the  interest  of  the  bright  comedy 
before  her.  As  the  curtain  fell  on  the  first  act,  leaving 
all  in  a  good  humor  at  the  ridiculously  funny  situations, 
she  was  aware  of  Guarda's  entrance,  and  as  she  turned, 
still  laughing,  to  speak,  she  saw  beyond  him  another 
figure,  taller,  younger,  darker.  She  did  not  see  the  face 
at  first,  but  the  laugh  died  on  her  lips  as  she  heard 
Guarda  speak  her  name.  Everything  seemed  dim  and  far 
away  for  a  moment ;  then  she  recovered  herself,  and  held 
out  her  hand  to  the  man,  who  bowed  over  it,  but  who 
looked  at  the  hand,  not  at  her  face.  She  had  not  heard 
the  introduction,  but  she  did  not  need  to  be  told  his 
name. 

"  You  are  much  of  a  stranger  in  your  own  land  of 
late,  so  Massa  Mark  tells  me,"  she  managed  to  say,  as  he 
took  a  chair  near  in  obedience  to  Guarda's  invitation. 

"  Massa  Mark  ?"  he  queried,  in  the  voice  she  had 
never  once  forgotten. 

"  She  means  me,"  said  Guarda,  smiling.  Merze  had 
never  seen  him  with  such  kindness  in  his  eyes  for  anyone 
except  herself. 

"  Yes,"  she  explained,  "  I   forget  sometimes  and  call 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  175 

him  so  before  strangers,  though  I  hope  I  shall  never 
have  to  class  you  among  that  list  again." 

If  he  discerned  any  hidden  meaning  in  the  words  he 
did  not  show  it. 

"  Your  hope  flatters  me,"  he  said,  quietly,  and  she  felt 
as  if  she  had  received  a  dash  of  cold  water  in  the  face. 
Where  was  his  old  grace  and  kindness  of  speech  ?  It 
was  all  the  imagination  of  a  child,  she  thought,  bitterly. 
What  right  had  he  to  come  at  all,  if  he  only  meant  to 
speak  like  that,  as  if  to  show  her  he  did  not  want  to 
remember  ? 

"  Yes,  he  has  been  away  so  long  he  is  becoming  a 
barbarian,"  said  Guarda.  "I  could  scarcely  get  him 
inside  the  theatre,  he  who  used  to  live  in  there,  almost, 
but  I  would  not  hear  to  him  going  by  without  you  meet- 
ing each  other — my  two  nearest  friends  in  the  world.  I 
have  spoken  of  you  to  her,  and,  as  she  says,  you  must 
not  be  a  stranger." 

"And  on  our  part,  Massa  Mark,"  said  Merze,  kindly, 
"we  must  not  force  Mr.  Drande's  inclinations.  You 
forced  him  in  to  see  me,  but  we  must  not  shackle  him  as 
soon  as  he  gets  inside  with  rash  vows  of  friendship. 
Did  you  see  Mr.  Orlane  ?"  she  asked,  changing  the 
conversation,  as  if  the  subject  was  ended  for  all  time. 

Guarda  comprehended  there  was  something  antago- 
nistic between  his  friends,  but  could  not  see  where  it  lay. 
Was  the  fault  his  ?  Had  he  made  a  blunder  in  speaking 
of  Drande's  reluctance  to  enter  ?  Still  Merze  was  not 
generally  like  that ;  she  was  inclined  to  be  more  pleased 
if  strangers  staid  away  altogether.  She  disliked  meeting 
them  always.  For  Guarda's  sake  they  tried  to  be  more 
companionable,  speaking  of  the  play,  the  players,  the 
improved  furnishings  of  the  theatre,  of  all  things  they 


176  MERZE : 

cared  nothing  for,  but  she  noticed  that  not  once  did  he 
speak  of  her  work,  or  anything  connected  with  her 
personally. 

"  Ah,  that  is  it !"  she  thought,  "  in  his  lordly  way  he 
disapproves  of  my  vocation,  and  thinks  to  make  me  feel 
his  indifference.  Does  he  think  me  still  a  child,  to 
care  ?" 

Orlane  entered  the  box  a  little  later,  and  to  him  Merze 
turned  warmly.  They  were  on  very  good  terms.  His 
admiration  for  her  was  very  palpable  to  any  seeing 
them  together,  and  they  were  soon  chatting  in  the  most 
friendly  manner.  Remarks  were  at  times  directed  to 
Drande,  but  though  he  answered  politely,  he  confined  his 
attention  to  Guarda,  much  to  the  latter's  delight. 

With  his  face  in  profile  toward  her,  Merze  could  note, 
without  his  knowledge,  the  features  she  had  thought  so 
perfect,  and  which  now  looked  cynical  and  tired,  and  a 
little  harsher  in  outline,  especially  the  jaws,  that  looked 
as  if  set  tightly  together.  She  was  watching  him,  though 
commenting  to  Orlane  on  the  new  leading  man  for  the 
piece  he  had  translated  for  her  debut  as  the  acknowledged 
leading  lady  of  the  Chalet. 

"  Don't,  Mr.  Orlane,"  she  said,  with  gay  beseeching, 
"  pray  don't  encourage  them  to  get  Ladean  ;  how  do  you 
expect  me  to  play  those  love  scenes  with  a  man  like  that  ? 
He  has  about  as  much  animation  as  a  wooden  man,  and 
will  neither  fall  nor  get  down  on  his  knees  without  look- 
ing for  the  softest  rug  on  the  stage  to  kneel  on." 

And  Orlane  laughingly  announced  himself  as  "willing 
to  play  the  part,  and  submit  to  as  many  rehearsals  of  the 
love  scenes  as  she  thought  necessary  to  their  perfection," 
at  which  they  both  laughed,  for  it  was  well  known  that 
Orlane  could  not  read  even  his  own  verses  creditably. 


THE    STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  177 

It  was  only  harmless  badinage,  but  it  was  such  as  neither 
Guarda  nor  Orlane  had  ever  known  her  to  give  way  to. 
They  did  not  know  it  was  the  contemptuous  look  in  the 
eyes  opposite  that  inspired  her  with  the  recklessness  of 
the  moment. 

"  Since  he  thinks  to  constitute  himself  a  silent  judge, 
he  may  as  well  have  something  to  arraign  me  for,"  she 
thought,  and  was  not  surprised  when  he  rose  and  made 
his  adieux. 

"  I  shall  expect  you  at  dinner  to-morrow,"  he  said  to 
Orlane  and  Guarda,  and  then  to  Merze,  bowing  low,  he 
said,  "  Good-by,  Miss  Mignot." 

She  smiled  up  serenely  in  his  dark  face.  "  Not  '  good- 
by,'  surely,  au  revoir." 

He  did  not  answer,  but  turned  and  left  the  box.  From 
where  she  sat  she  could  see  him  reach  the  door,  stop  a 
moment  and  look  back  across  the  mass  of  faces  to  her 
own,  and  then  disappear  in  the  lobby. 

"A  peculiar  character,  and  a  splendid  fellow,"  said 
Orlane,  as  he  left,  "but  he  has  changed  much,  don't  you 
think  so,  Guarda?" 

"  Changed  ?  Yes,  he  is  not  the  careless  Bohemian  of 
ten  years  ago,"  answered  the  old  man,  thoughtfully  ;  he 
is  steadier,  more  settled,  and  I  scarcely  know  which 
phase  of  character  is  the  most  attractive,  his  nonsense 
then  or  his  thought  now.  This  is  certainly  the  more 
commendable,  for  he  had  just  run  through  a  fortune 
then,  and  was  oceans  in  debt.  He  has  cleared  them 
away,  and  is  laying  the  foundation  for  another  one  now  ; 
one  that  will  not  scatter  so  easily.  It  makes  a  big 
difference  who  garners  the  grain  as  to  whose  fowl  eats  it." 

"  Did  you  know  Drande  before  ?"  asked  Orlane  of 
Merze. 

ia 


178  MERZE  : 

"  I  have  seen  a  face  his  reminded  me  of." 

Guarda  looked  quickly  at  her. 

"  I  did  not  know  that ;  you  did  not  mention  it." 

"  Why  should  I  ?"  she  answered,  carelessly.  "  I  did 
not  know  he  was  your  friend.  I  saw  him  that  first 
night  of  '  Hesta';  he  was  in  a  box.  I  asked  Mr.  Orlane 
who  he  was,  because  his  face  resembled  one  I  had  seen. 
This  man's  name  is  strange  to  me,  and,  on  seeing  him 
closer,  I  can  discover  but  little  similarity.  It  was  a 
mistake  easily  made.  It  was  years  ago  when  I  last  saw 
the  face  I  speak  of.  Time  enough  to  forget  multitudes 
of  them." 

But  her  careless  words  did  not  satisfy  the  keen  eyes  of 
Guarda.  She  was  not  used  to  subterfuge  any  more  than 
to  coquetry,  and  was  awkward  at  it. 

"  Has  her  life  also  its  turned-down  page  ?"  he  thought, 
"  and  has  Drande  anything  to  do  with  it  ?  At  least  it 
could  not  have  been  a  love  affair.  Six  years  ago.  No, 
it  is  impossible  ;  she  was  only  a  child  then  They  do 
not  like  each  other,  that  is  all ;  nothing  for  an  old  man 
to  be  suspicious  over." 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

"  And  the  people  like  her  so  well  ?" 

"  'Like  '  does  not  express  it,  there  is  something  refresh- 
ing about  her  work,  it  is  so  natural,  apparently  so 
unstudied.  But  there  one  would  be  mistaken,  for  she 
has  worked  and  studied  very  hard,  and  under  Guarda,  a 
taskmaster  few  have  the  courage  to  begin  with.  He  is 
very  exacting,  but  for  Mignot  he  seems  to  have  great 
affection,  and  she  for  him.  A  few  words  of  praise  from  him 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  179 

is  more  to  her  than  all  the  compliments  and  adulation 
younger  men  would  shower  on  her  if  they  had  the  chance 
— an  opportunity  they  never  get.  Their  bouquets  are 
divided  among  the  company,  their  notes  are  handed  to 
Guarda.  She  meets  but  few  people  outside  those  con- 
nected with  the  profession,  and  her  very  exclusiveness 
makes  her  the  more  attractive  to  her  audience." 

"  She  has  at  least  an  admirer  in  you,"  said  Drande, 
with  a  quizzical  smile. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Orlane,  "  she  certainly  has.  I  always 
admired  her,  and  when  she  made  a  success  of  '  Hesta  ' 
for  me,  I  felt  myself  under  obligations  to  her  that  could 
never  be  settled  with  salary. 

"They  tell  me  the  play  is  beautiful.  Don't  give  her 
all  the  credit ;  many  a  woman  might  have  done  as  well 
for  you." 

"I  don't  believe  it.  I  am  past  all  hope,"  as  Drande 
laughed  a  little  sarcastically.  "  No  one's  opinion  against 
her  work  would  weigh  an  iota  with  me.  Our  friendship 
is  purely  platonic,  but  on  my  side  it  is  very  earnest,  and 
she  is  a  lady  whose  friends  may  always  be  proud  of  the 
distinction." 

Orlane's  words  were  so  decided  as  to  be  almost  a 
challenge.  The  other  lit  a  cigar  slowly,  and  leaned  back 
to  enjoy  it. 

"  Hard  hit,"  he  murmured,  lazily.  "  My  dear  fellow, 
long  may  they  continue  to  be  proud.  I  say  nothing 
against  her,  I  scarcely  know  her.  Do  you  expect  your 
friends  to  worship  blindly  as  well  as  yourself  ?  She  did 
not  seem  to  me  very  gracious  in  her  manner." 

"  What  did  you  expect,  a  flirtation  akin  to  the  many  in 
your  years  that  are  gone  ?  Guarda  would  scarcely  have 
introduced  you  had  he  thought  it." 


180  MERZE  : 

"  Come,  come,  Orlane,  let  us  drop  the  subject.  You 
are  not  good-humored  to-day,  and  women  always  breed 
trouble  wherever  their  names  are  let  creep  in.  Take  an 
old  man's  advice,  and  give  them  a  wide  berth." 

"  What  a  patriarch  one  would  imagine  you  !  Most  of 
your  years  have  had  long  summers  at  all  events,  for  they 
lie  on  you  lightly  ;  forty  you  must  be,  and  you  look 
no  more  than  twenty-five,  at  the  farthest." 

"  I  was  thirty-eight  my  last  birthday,"  answered  the 
other,  resignedly,  "  and  shall  expect  an  increase  of  gray 
hairs  if  you  serve  up  'Mignot'  for  me  as  a  very  monot- 
onous garnish  for  every  dish  at  our  lunches,  as  you  have 
done  to-day." 

"Confound  you  !"  laughed  the  other,  "you  have  no 
soul  in  you." 

"  None  to  prostrate  before  your  shrine." 

"  Yet  she  had  some  little  interest  in  you,  after  all ;  you 
resemble  someone  she  had  known,  and  she  asked  your 
name  that  night  you  stopped  to  see  North,  on  your  way 
to  Mexico." 

"  Indeed  ?  I  suppose  the  correct  thing  to  say  is  that  I 
am  wretched  at  not  being  the  man  she  knew,  but  I  am 
not,  I'm  quite  comfortable,  thank  you." 

"  Entirely  too  much  so.  Put  on  your  nat  and  come  to 
the  theatre  ;  we  have  a  rehearsal  to-day.  Guarda  will  be 
glad  to  see  you  ;  come  along." 

"  No,  thanks,  I'm  very  well  here  ;  be  off  with  you  !  I 
know  you  don't  care  for  outsiders,  and  your  high  priest- 
ess, your  one  star  in  the  heavens,  might  frown  on  an 
intruder,  and  that  would  be  annihilation.  I  won't  risk  it." 

And  Orlane  left  him  there,  the  picture  of  indolence, 
leaning  back  in  an  adjustable  chair,  and  puffing  out 
smoke  until  there  was  a  perfect  haze  about  him. 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  181 

"Poor  Orlane,"  he  thought,  compassionately,  "how 
very  earnest  he  is.  So  she  made  inquiries  about  me  ? 
Then  she  knew  who  I  was,  and  that  we  were  likely  to 
meet.  Her  reception  of  me  was  not  unstudied  ;  that  is 
well  to  know,  though  it  is  not  flattering.  Of  course," 
stretching  himself  at  full  length,  with  hands  clasped  back 
of  his  head,  "of  course  there  is  no  reason  why  she 
would  care  to  remember.  I  did  nothing  for  her,  though 
I  would  have  been  fool  enough  to  do  much  had  it  been 
possible,  and  how  lovely,  how  bright,  how  ambitious  she 
was  ;  and  how  strong  the  young  heart.  It  is  buried 
fathoms  deep  beneath  her  laces  now,  and  her  pride  is  so 
false  that  it  fears  any  who  have  known  her  poverty. 
Bah,  she  is  worthless  !" 

And,  rising  impatiently,  he  began  opening  a  box 
brought  in  that  morning  by  the  expressman. 

"  Dear  old  mother  !"  he  thought,  as  he  lifted  out  some 
books  carefully  wrapped,  "you  are  worth  them  all,  with 
their  beauty,  their  grace,  and  their  shallow  souls.'' 

He  had  taken  his  rooms  but  a  week  before,  and  had 
nothing  of  his  own  in  decorations  or  furnishings  as  yet. 
The  box  was  one  his  mother  had  sent  him  from  home, 
filled  with  some  of  his  favorite  belongings.  In  one  com- 
partment were  books,  a  couple  of  bronze  busts,  a  smoking 
set,  a  box  filled  with  papers  of  all  sizes  and  shapes,  some 
slippers,  and  various  comforts  of  his  mother's  manu- 
facture. In  the  other  were  several  pictures,  some  of  his 
own  work,  and  some  of  his  friends. 

Each  seemed  an  old  companion  as  he  turned  them  to 
the  light,  with  first  a  landscape  with  the  soft,  hazy  pink  of 
a  June  sunset ;  again,  a  dancing  girl,  with  dress  of  the 
East,  and  bronze  limbs  like  sun-kissed  satin  ;  a  madonna, 
with  softly  curved  arms,  in  which  the  child  nestled  ;  a 


182  MERZE  : 

sweet,  fair  face  drawing  a  curtain,  and  enough  to  show 
behind  it  a  smooth  white  shoulder  and  a  flood  of  sunny 
hair,  laughing  it  was,  with  the  little  pearls  of  teeth  show- 
ing between  red  lips. 

"So  harmless  looking,  so  innocent  in  your  pretty, 
alluring  ways,  and  so — like  all  of  your  kind,"  and  he 
laid  it  aside  to  lift  out  one  of  a  child  sleeping  in  a  little 
hollow,  backed  by  the  black  roots  of  an  overturned  tree. 

He  looked  at  it  long  and  critically. 

"  What  freak  of  fate  induced  the  little  mother  to  rake 
this  up  and  send  it  now  of  all  times  ?  It  is  better  work 
than  I  can  do  of  late  years.  I  did  it  about  the  time  I 
discovered  that,  after  all  my  study,  Art,  in  its  highest 
form,  would  always  be  impossible  to  me.  I  was,  and 
would  remain,  an  amateur.  I  wonder" — and  his  mouth 
curved  with  a  smile  that  had  little  gayety  in  it — "  I  wonder 
how  Mademoiselle  Mignot  would  appreciate  it  as  a  pres- 
tnt.  However  I  shall  not  test  her.  My  walls  are  bare 
enough  to  need  them  all." 

And  he  hung  it  where  the  light  fell  softly  over  the 
shady  green  of  the  foliage,  and  the  fair  grace  of  the 
childish  form.  Then,  putting  on  his  hat,  he  sauntered 
out  into  the  sunshine.  He  was  not  in  the  humor  for 
work,  and  the  walls  of  a  house  were  too  close  for  him. 
Here  and  there  he  met  an  acquaintance,  but  did  not  stop 
to  talk.  He  hesitated  at  a  bookstore  about  going  in  for 
a  magazine.  While  he  stood,  a  man  came  to  the  window 
pinning  in  it  an  engraving,  at  which  he  glanced,  and 
then  turned  impatiently  away.  It  was  the  lovely  face  he 
knew  so  well.  Beneath  it  was  her  autograph — Merze 
Mignot.  It  was  one  of  the  lithographs  for  the  new 
play. 

"Am  I  to  see  her  face  everywhere  ?"  he  muttered,  and 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  183 

walked  on,  on  aimlessly  until  he  heard  his  name  spoken, 
and,  turning,  found  Guarda  beside  him. 

"  Where  are  you  going  in  that  fashion,  with  your  eyes 
on  the  ground  ?"  asked  this  character  always  privileged 
with  Drande.  "  Miserable  ?" 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  answered,  smiling.  "  I  am  sorry  to 
disappoint  you,  but  I  feel  all  right." 

"  Sorry  ?  Come  with  me  ;  I  had  to  go  home  for  some 
forgotten  manuscripts.  The  folks  are  waiting ;  come 
along." 

He  did  not  say  who  was  waiting  or  where  he  was  going, 
but  Drande  turned  and  walked,  talking  with  him  until, 
before  he  noticed  where  they  were  going,  he  found  him- 
self before  the  Chalet,  the  very  place  he  had  refused 
to  go  an  hour  before. 

"  No  matter,"  insisted  Guarda,  "  come  in  ;  no  excuses, 
I  want  your  opinion  on  some  designs  for  furniture — his- 
torical. You  know  a  little  of  everything,  and  may  help 
me  out ;  come  along." 

Orlane  looked  up  in  surprise  as  he  entered.  Down  the 
aisle  Merze  was  exchanging  a  few  necessary  words  with 
Lawrence.  They  spoke  briefly,  and  as  he  left  her,  she 
turned  toward  the  door,  hearing  Guarda's  voice,  and  met 
again  the  dark,  displeased  eyes  of  Drande.  She  nodded 
to  him  coolly,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  Is  there  anything  I  could  do,"  she  thought,  wrath- 
fully,  "  that  he  would  not  try  to  frown  down  ?" 

And  he,  knowing  much  of  Lawrence's  reputation,  was 
thinking.  "  And  it  is  men  like  that  she  meets  on  equality 
— that  is  the  '  greatness '  she  has  won  !" 

"Merze,  do  you  see  Mr.  Drande,"  asked  Guarda, 
coming  down.  "  Away  down  street  I  found  him,  intim- 
ating that  he  was  happy.  I  couldn't  stand  that,  so 


184  MERZE : 

brought  him  to  share  with  us  the  miseries  of  a  rehearsal. 
Be  seated  until  I  get  back  with  the  designs,  my  child  ;  you 
are  not  on  for  a  half  hour,  sit  down  ;  you  will  be  tired 
enough  before  you  get  home.  Here,  Orlane,  are  the 
manuscripts."  And  he  shuffled  away,  leaving  those  two 
alone  silent. 

A  girl  was  rehearsing  a  simple  little  song  in  a  fresh, 
sweet  voice.  Orlane  stopped  beside  them  to  listen. 

"  She  has  a  voice  clear  as  a  lark's,"  he  said,  passing 
on. 

"  Clear,  yes,  but  weak,"  remarked  Drande,  not  turning 
his  head,  and  thinking  Orlane  still  there. 

"I  fear  we  are  all  that  in  the  critical  eyes  of  Mr. 
Drande,"  answered  Merze,  half  in  anger  with  herself 
that  his  looks  and  manner  had  power  to  vex  her  so.  "  We, 
in  our  work,  are  as  the  hollow  reeds  by  the  river,  through 
which  the  waters  and  the  winds  rustle  musically  at  times. 
The  music  was  imprisoned  in  them  by  a  God  long  ago,  who 
found  the  sounds  sweet ;  but  the  cynic  of  this  age  sees 
in  them  only  brown  stalks,  hears  in  them  only  the  slug- 
gish surge  of  the  blood  in  his  own  veins  as  he  holds  them 
close  to  his  ear  and  listens."  He  smiled  as  she  spoke  in 
the  fanciful  language  she  had  used  that  long-past  day. 
He  could  hear  so  clearly  the  vibration  of  anger  in  her 
voice,  and  knew  it  was  for  herself  she  resented  his  criti- 
cism ;  not  for  the  girl  singing.  For  the  first  time  he 
turned  and  looked  at  her  face  to  face. 

"  Thanks,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  for  the  place  you  assign 
me  in  your  metaphor.  I  knew  once  a  reed,  such  as  you 
speak  of  ;  an  untamed  thing  with  all  its  wild  music  shut 
in  a  little  form  too  slight,  I  fear,  for  its  preservation. 
The  jostle  with  the  world  in  the  strife  for  '  greatness ' 
shatters  all  frail  things." 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  185 

He  ceased  a  moment.  She  did  not  answer  ;  her  head 
bent  lower,  that  was  all.  Her  hand  slipped  from  the  back 
of  the  chair  into  her  lap.  On  it  gleamed  still  that  cluster 
of  opal  and  diamonds  which  Lawrence  had  insisted  on 
her  keeping.  On  her  wrist  was  an  odd,  foreign-looking 
bracelet  given  her  by  Guarda,  formed  of  curious  flat 
chains  united  by  a  clasp  of  brilliants.  The  light  falling 
across  them  left  a  sparkle  and  glitter  over  the  white 
hand.  It  caught  his  eye,  and  he  smiled  as  he  looked. 

She,  seeing  his  glance,  drew  the  hand  back  quickly. 

"  Ah  !"  and  he  rose.  "  There  are  compensations,  per- 
haps. But  you  speak  of  the  music  of  the  reeds  ;  there 
is  a  music  akin  to  it  spoken  of  in  the  Talmud — of  a  flute 
that  had  been  held  sacred  since  the  days  of  Moses.  It 
was  slight  and  slender,  with  the  sweetest  of  sounds  in  its 
breath  ;  but  a  king,  wishing  to  give  it  greater  beauty  and 
richness,  had  it  overlaid  with  gold  and  set  with  jevrels. 
It  was  dazzling  to  the  eye,  but  the  music  in  its  heart  was 
gone  forever — smothered  under  the  weight  of  the  gold." 

Mark,  coming  a  few  minutes  later,  found  her  alone, 
resting  her  head  on  the  back  of  the  chair  in  front  of  her. 

"  Where  is  Drande  ?"  he  asked,  quickly. 

"  Gone,  I  believe.  I  fear  I  was  not  entertaining.  My 
head  aches  a  little.  Are  they  ready  for  me  now  ?" 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Those  two  met  often,  but  seldom  showed  to  good 
advantage  in  each  other's  eyes.  Their  friends  were  the 
same  people,  and,  in  the  same  circle  of  upper  Bohemia, 
they  could  not  help  hearing  each  other's  names,  and 
generally  in  praise.  But  the  spark  of  discord  had  fallen 


186  MERZE  : 

that  night  when  his  eyes  showed  displeased  amazement, 
gazing  down  on  the  wide-eyed,  startled  Hesta.  Why  had 
he  looked  displeased  ?  He  could  scarcely  have  told  him- 
self. Many  actresses  were  of  his  acquaintance,  many 
whom  he  respected  and  honored  as  noble  wives,  devoted 
mothers.  But  she,  that  child  in  the  hills,  he  had  always 
felt  as  if  in  a  way  had  belonged  to  him.  No  other 
evidently  had  ever  touched  the  depths  of  her  needs  and 
appreciated  them  as  he  had  done  ;  to  no  other,  he  felt 
sure,  had  she  ever  uncovered  so  entirely  her  childish, 
vague  longing.  It  made  him  feel,  after  a  fashion,  as  an 
explorer  who  stumbles  over  a  jewel  whose  brightest 
gleams  were  shown  but  to  his  eye.  To  be  sure  he  had 
let  it  go  without  demur  to  its  rightful  owners,  who,  he 
supposed,  had  kept  it  somewhere  in  the  peace  of  some 
nook,  sheltered  from  the  changing,  warring  winds  of  the 
world. 

And  that  night  when  he  saw  her,  it  was  with  the  sense 
that  something,  deemed  his  own,  had  been  given  without 
his  will  to  the  crowds  to  hiss  or  encore  as  they  chose. 
The  glittering  jewel  was  enjoyed  alike  by  all,  gleamed 
for  all ;  she  belonged  to  the  people. 

It  was  only  the  nature  of  the  man  in  him,  with  all  the 
selfishness  which  the  word  holds.  Had  she  remained 
always  in  some  home  apart  from  his  world,  he  would 
have  remembered  kindly,  with  the  interest  of  an  analyst, 
the  strange  nature  to  which  he  felt  no  other  was  so  likely 
to  gain  the  key.  His  words — oh,  egotism  ! — he  felt  sure 
she  would  keep  with  her.  He  had  not  thought  to  see  her 
ever;  more  than  likely  he  had  never  really  wished  to  in 
all  the  six  years,  unless  it  had  been  just  at  first,  when 
deep  sorrow  had  moved  him  often  to  think  regretfully 
that  he  could  not  have  cared  for  her  himself.  But  after 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  187 

that  she  was  only  thought  of  as  a  picturesque  character, 
until,  all  in  a  moment,  a  vail  seemed  to  have  lifted  and 
showed  her  to  him  in  a  light  that  wavered  from  amaze- 
ment to  resentment,  and  then  to  injustice. 

Poor  old  Mephisto's  occupation  was  gone.  There  was 
no  need  for  mimic  miseries  such  as  the  loving  heart  so 
often  pretended  it  reveled  in,  a  pretense  that  covered 
many  a  kindly  act. 

His  favorite,  his  child,  as  he  called  her  often,  worked 
harder  than  ever.  His  ambition  for  her  was  not  likely 
to  be  in  vain,  but  gradully  he  found  a  change  creeping 
into  her  life.  The  old  quiet  was  gone,  she  did  not  object 
so  much  as  she  used  to  when  he  asked  her  to  go  among 
friends  more.  Why  was  it  ?  he  asked,  unless  because  her 
old,  quiet,  home  life  did  not  content  her.  There  was  not 
so  much  time  someway  for  those  long,  happy  talks  as 
there  used  to  be.  Or,  if  at  times  they  found  themselves 
alone,  he  noticed  a  lack  of  the  old  eagerness  for  the  tales, 
the  reminiscences  tinged  with  the  poetic  flavor  from  the 
Spanish  lips.  Those  tales  of  the  past  generation  of  our 
actors  had  always  been  interesting  to  her  as  he  told 
them,  with  here  a  bit  of  anecdote,  there  a  sarcastic  simile 
carrying  perhaps  a  life's  lesson  under  its  bitterness,  and 
again,  some  touch  of  human  nature's  depth  appealing  to 
the  heart  of  his  listener.  It  was  all  gone.  Often  he 
knew  she  sat  with  closed  ears  and  thoughts  far  removed 
from  either  the  business  or  pastime  in  which  he  tried  to 
interest  her. 

If  he  had  known  the  thoughts  were  happy  ones  ne 
would  not  have  cared,  but  he  felt  they  were  not.  Several 
times  he  had  seen  her  meditating  with  contemptuous 
curved  lips  and  moody  eyes,  with  the  moodiness  in  them 
of  sullen,  brooding  storms.  She  was  loving,  tender  as 


188  MERZE  : 

ever  to  him,  only  she  was  silent  as  to  her  own  thoughts. 
Sometimes  he  feared  it  was  concerning  Lawrence  ;  he 
was  drinking  some  of  late,  not  enough  to  interfere  with 
his  duties,  but,  perhaps,  enough  to  cause  her  apprehen- 
sion as  to  the  future.  He  never  came  near  her  except  as 
business  required  it,  for  which  she  was  thankful. 

Just  once  she  had  seen  him  with  the  signs  of  intoxica- 
tion in  his  manner.  It  was  on  the  street ;  he  had  not 
spoken,  had  only  looked  at  her  and  smiled,  but  she  felt 
herself  turning  sick  with  a  great  disgust,  knowing  that 
her  life  must  be  free  only  through  his  lenity. 

She  knew  that  his  past  had  much  in  it  to  commend  his 
promises,  and  to  the  dead  they  had  been  kept  inviolate  ; 
but  he  was  changing  much,  so  Guarda  told  her.  At 
times  he  was  drinking  deeply,  something  he  had  never 
done  before.  It  debases  so  many,  and  how  was  she  to 
know  what  depths  it  might  lead  him  to,  or  whether  it 
would  allow  him  to  hold  any  promise  sacred  ? 

So  many  new  currents  seemed  drifting  into  her  life 
since  that  night  when  she  first  awakened  the  people  to  a 
sense  of  her  own  strength.  Before  that  there  had  been 
only  Massa  Mark  and  herself,  and  how  happy,  how  care- 
free they  were  !  Now  there  was  Crista  ;  but  for  that  she 
had  no  regret,  and  through  what  she  felt  now  was  a  mis- 
taken sense  of  justice,  Lawrence  had  drifted  back  and 
was  of  her  life  though  not  in  it,  a  nightmare  that  would 
chase  forever  all  contented  dreams.  And  then  there 
was  that  dark,  mocking  face  that  always  brought  upper- 
most in  her  nature  its  worst  traits,  the  recklessness  of  an 
untrained  nature  filled  with  pride,  resentment,  and  an 
assumption  of  contemptuous  disdain. 

To  Guarda,  the  only  one  who  noticed  it,  no  explana- 
tion of  his  own  could  satisfy  his  mind. 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  1S9 

"  My  friend,  he  said  one  day,  in  the  sanctuary  of  his 
own  den,  with  its  smell  of  tobacco,  its  queer  paraphernalia 
of  the  mimic  art,  its  scene-plots  and  manuscripts  shoved 
away  in  piles  or  dangling  from  hooks  on  the  wall,  while 
loose  lay  a  mass  of  engravings — Macready  as  Richard, 
Forrest  as  Coriolanus,  the  elder  Wallack  as  Mercutio, 
Cushman's  square,  strong  face  as  Lady  Macbeth,  and 
dozens  of  dead  faces  whose  charm  is  remembered  but  by 
the  few,  though  their  names  will  reach  down  through  the 
dim  columns  of  the  future.  To  the  old  man  those  faces 
were  very  dear.  Many  had  been  earnest  friends,  and  all 
reminded  him  of  a  past  that  had  not  been  sombre.  He 
was  gathering  them  up  to  show  Merze,  and  talking  to 
Drande  as  he  did  so. 

"My  friend,"  he  repeated;  "how  is  it  that 
you  and  my  protegS  seem  always  to  be  at  sword's- 
points  ?" 

"  Are  we  ?  I  was  not  aware  of  it.  She  seems  a  charm- 
ing lady  to  her  friends,  from  what  I  hear.  I  am  only  an 
acquaintance." 

"I  had  hoped  you  would  be  friends,"  the  old  man  said, 
wistfully.  "  I  like  you  both  well.  I  do  not  see  you  speak 
often,  but  when  you  do  it  is  coldly,  with  hauteur.  I  do 
not  think  you  can  have  any  idea  of  the  strong,  loving 
heart.  It  seems  a  pity,  for  you  would  appreciate  the 
fine  nature  if  you  could  know  her  as  I  do,  brave  beneath 
a  yoke  heavier,  I  fear,  than  you  or  I  could  estimate. 
Careless  in  her  manner,  while  her  thoughts  are  busy  with 
the  welfare  of  others,  for  she,  herself,  is  the  last  con- 
sideration. What  she  imagines  her  duty  is  sacred  to 
her,  poor  child  !  I  fancy  that  faith  to  supposed  duties 
has  brought  much  misery  in  her  life." 

"Why,  Guarda,  old  fellow,  you  are  talking  dismally 


190  MERZE  : 

to-day  of  a  much  envied  woman.  I  fancy  she  is  very 
well  satisfied  with  her  life." 

"With  her  work,  perhaps,  yes,"  he  acknowledged. 
"  Why  should  she  not  be  ?  It  is  good.  But  of  the  life, 
ah  !  who  can  tell  ?  I  care  for  her  very  much  ;  she  is  as 
a  daughter  to  me,  but  lately  I  am  anxious  at  times.  I 
speak  only  to  you  of  her  thus.  I  scarcely  know  why, 
only  at  times  I  fancy  you  think  her  shallow,  frivolous, 
but  you  must  not ;  it  is  a  very  brave,  very  deep  nature  ; 
worthy  of  your  respect." 

"  My  dear  old  friend,  she  has  it  for  your  sake  if  nothing 
else,"  replied  the  other.  "  Perhaps,  as  you  say,  I  have 
not  known  her  well  enough  to  judge  ;  but  she  has  many 
friends,  and  she  does  not  seem  anxious  to  add  my  name 
to  the  list,  and  I  have  little  time  now  for  making  new 
ones  ;  but  she  has  my  best  wishes.  May  her  friends  and 
her  lovers  be  always  constant." 

"  Ah  !  that  is  where  you  make  the  mistakes  regarding 
her,"  broke  in  Guarda  ;  "  you  class  her  like  that  in  a  con- 
temptuous manner.  She  does  not  deserve  it.  Lovers, 
bah  !  no,  she  will  have  no  lovers." 

"  Not  ?"  and  a  quick  gleam  crossed  the  dark  eyes. 
"  Then  I  am  to  infer  there  is  one  already  in  the  field  ? 
Many  are  curious  as  to  your  protege's  history ;  a  lover 
in  the  background  would  be  something  at  all  events." 

"They  can  remain  curious,"  announced  Guarda, 
decidedly.  "  I  can  say  only  that  she  deserves  all  respect. 
Her  art  must  make  a  history  for  her  ;  other  than  that  I 
fear  she  will  never  have  to  give.  But  there  is  no  lover  ; 
there  has,  I  feel  sure,  never  been  one,  and,  for  her  sake, 
I  hope  there  never  will  be." 

"There  are,  I  should  imagine,  several  prominent 
aspirants  for  the  position." 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  191 

"  Aspirants  ?  bah  !  She  cares  more  for  me  than  for 
all  of  them  put  together.  Oh,  laugh,  if  that  amuses  you  ! 
but  it  is  true.  It  is  because  I  am  getting  old  and  she 
thinks  in  a  way  that  I  need  her ;  that  also  is  true.  I 
could  not  do  without  her  now,  and  you,  you  are  almost 
old  enough  to  be  her  father,  and  are  my  friend.  If  you 
would  only  be  sensible,  you  two,  we  might  have  many 
pleasant  hours  together.  But  no ;  I  am  between  two 
fires  with  you.  I  am  going  there  with  these  old  engrav- 
ings now ;  come  along." 

"  No,  no,  Guarda,  let  me  at  least  wait  for  an  invitation, 
which  I  shall  never  get,"  he  added,  in  his  own  thoughts. 

That  night  he  stood  long  looking  at  the  face  of  the 
sleeping  child. 

"  '  A  great  trouble '  he  said,  poor  old  Guarda  ;  he  may, 
through  love  for  her,  imagine  it  greater  than  it  is — a 
great  burden.  Well,  I,  at  least,  will  never  be  able  to 
help  her  bear  it  now.  Ah  !  why  should  I  ?  She  is 
nothing  to  me,  and,  as  he  said,  I  am  almost  old  enough 
to  be  her  father.  Yes,  perhaps,  but  that  day  in  the 
theatre  with  her  head  bent,  after  those  sarcastic,  angry 
words,  someway  I  did  not  feel  like  it — not  nearly  so 
much  as  when  I  painted  that.  But  there  can  be  no  friend- 
ship between  us,  and — she  is  to  have  no  lover." 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

That  opening  night  of  the  season  at  the  Chalet  was  a 
memorable  one  to  Merze.  It  was  her  first  part  as 
acknowledged  leading  lady.  Her  friends  were  enthu- 
siastic over  her  success  in  a  part  entirely  opposite  in 
character  to  Hesta — a  young  wife  in  a  French  comedy, 


192  MERZE  : 

with  all  the  brightness,  the  verve,  and  dash  in  it  that  was 
sparkling  as  light  wine. 

She  was  a  surprise  to  many.  Drande,  near  the  door, 
heard  many  flattering  comments,  but  turned  angrily  as 
close  to  him  a  man  spoke  as  if  of  a  race-horse. 

"  By  Jove  !  I  told  her  she  couldn't  do  that  sort  of 
thing,  but  she  can.  I  didn't  think  she  had  it  in  her." 

It  was  Lawrence  His  face  was  a  little  flushed.  He 
had  been  drinking,  but  was  not  intoxicated.  Drande 
checked  the  quick  words  that  sprung  to  his  lips,  for,  after 
all,  what  right  had  he  ?  This  man  was,  perhaps,  priv- 
ileged to  speak  in  that  manner — as  of  one  who  discussed 
with  her,  her  capabilities.  Thus  she  chose  her  friends, 
he  thought  bitterly,  and  only  his  eyes,  angry  and  indig- 
nant, turned  toward  the  speaker,  who  saw  it  and  felt  a 
little  amused,  though  it  brought  him  to  his  senses.  If 
sober  he  never  would  have  spoken  in  that  way,  but  he 
stood  looking  at  Drande  for  quite  a  while  thinking  : 
"  Why  does  he  resent  it  ?  There  is  no  friendship  between 
them — at  least  on  her  side  ;  she  shows  that  in  her  man- 
ner. And  he — it  would  be  odd  if  he  should  care  for  her, 
he  who  has  passed  his  time  pleasantly,  but  has  never 
been  credited  with  a  serious  affair  in  all  the  years  I  have 
known  him.  Well,  it  will  be  of  no  use  with  Merze.  She 
will  care  nothing  for  any  man.  I  used  to  be  afraid  of 
that,  but  it  was  interest  thrown  away.  Her  head  is  too 
level  ever  to  make  such  a  mistake.  I  wonder  if  it  ever 
crosses  their  minds  that  they  met  down  there  in  Ken- 
tucky. She,  I  suppose,  has  forgotten  it.  She  was  only 
a  child,  but  he,  he  left  that  card  for  her  and  was  inter- 
ested, so  the  nurse  said.  By  Jove  !  it  never  struck  me 
before.  He  does  recognize  her.  He  is  interested  in  her 
still,  that  is  why  he  resents  trifles  for  her  and  glares  at 


THE    STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  193 

me  like  that.  What  if  he  knew  the  truth  ?  Ah,  my  fine, 
very  correct  gentleman  !  you  are  wasting  your  time  in 
this  game." 

And  in  a  way  it  gave  him  pleasure  to  think  it.  He 
had  never  liked  Drande.  There  was  something  in  his 
manner  that  had  always  warded  off  any  attempts  at 
sociability  or  equality  from  men  of  Lawrence's  stamp. 
It  had  galled  him  often,  more  than  one  would  have 
thought  of  the  jaunty,  seemingly  careless,  gambler. 

And  now,  standing  there  looking  at  him,  as  he  watched 
with  moody  eyes  every  movement  of  the  woman  on  the 
stage,  there  came  a  sort  of  satisfaction  in  her  possession 
across  his  mind,  a  feeling  that,  after  all,  by  legal  right 
she  was  his  ;  that  he  had  the  power  to  keep  forever  out 
of  reach  of  this  fine,  scornful,  supercilious  gentleman  the 
thing  which  he  felt  he  desired. 

The  play  was  over  and  the  people  gone,  all  except  a 
few  attaches  and  some  friends  of  Orlane  who  had  waited, 
among  them  North  and  Drande,  who  stood  at  the  en- 
trance chatting.  They  heard  Guarda's  voice  coming  out 
and  turned  to  speak. 

With  him  was  Merze,  looking  tired,  but  evidently 
pleased  at  some  praise  of  Guarda.  As  they  reached  the 
entrance  she  glanced  at  the  gentlemen  and  said  good- 
night as  she  passed. 

"  One  moment,  Guarda,"  said  Orlane,  diving  into  his 
pockets  for  a  letter  to  give  him.  Guarda  turned,  drop- 
ping Merze's  arm,  and  she  walked  on  a  few  steps  alone. 
Two  carriages  were  at  the  door ;  the  first  she  walked 
toward  thinking  it  was  theirs.  Drande  of  all  the  party 
stood  nearest  the  street,  and  Lawrence,  about  to  enter 
the  theatre,  saw  both  him  and  Merze.  He  had  been 
drinking  more.  Just  enough  to  give  a  tinge  of  bravado 
13 


194  MKRZE  : 

to  his  manner,  and,  halting,  he  said  :  "  Not  that  carriage, 
Merze,  the  other  one,"  and  took  a  step  toward  her  which 
Drande,  with  a  quick  stride,  intercepted. 

"  Allow  me,"  he  said,  offering  his  arm,  which  she  took 
silently.  He  could  feel  she  was  trembling  ;  if  with  anger 
she  showed  it  in  no  other  way,  for  she  did  not  raise  her 
eyes.  He  placed  her  in  the  carriage  and  stood  silent  at 
the  door  of  it,  until  Guarda  came  shuffling  down  the 
steps  and  entered  ;  then  he  closed  it,  answering  the  old 
man's  good-night,  and  turned  back  to  his  friends. 

Merze  had  uttered  not  a  word. 

On  the  step  Lawrence  still  stood  with  a  peculiar  look 
in  his  eyes  as  he  noticed  that  Merze  did  not  speak. 
Drande  passed  him  as  if  he  were  not  there,  though  all 
the  blood  in  his  veins  was  boiling  at  the  insolence  of  the 
man's  manner  which  he  could  not  resent. 

To  Merze,  not  knowing  the  words  were  only  meant  to 
anger  Drande,  the  manner  of  Lawrence's  speaking  to 
her  was  a  shock.  She  could  see  beneath  it  only  the 
thing  she  dreaded  most — that  he  might  again  claim  her 
as  his  wife.  He  had  never  once  called  her  Merze  before 
anyone  since  his  return,  and  now  to  do  so  before  that 
one  man  who  thought  so  little  of  her  at  best — who 
imagined  she  cared  but  for  the  tinsel  trappings. 

She  sat  back  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage,  covering 
her  face  with  her  hands.  Vague  fears  were  closing  in 
around  her.  If  she  could  only  end  all  this  secrecy!  But 
there  was  only  one  way  to  do  it,  and  she  dared  not  think 
of  it.  It  would  mean  death  in  life  to  her,  and  she  fancied 
she  could  see  the  contempt  in  his  eyes  if  he  knew. 

A  shivering  breath  like  a  sob  reached  Guarda's  ears 
above  the  roll  of  the  wheels. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  quickly. 


THE   STORY    OF   AN    ACTRESS.  195 

"  Nothing,  Massa  Mark,  only — only  I  am  tired  and  a 
little  nervous,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  is  only  natural ;  the  part  is  a  hard  working 
one.  But,  my  Merze,  you  have  been  so  strong ;  you 
never  used  to  get  so  tired." 

"  I  suppose  I  am  getting  old,"  she  said,  with  a  wan 
smile,  as  they  stopped  at  her  door.  "  Come  in,  it  is  not 
late.  I  shall  be  poor  company,  but  I  do  not  care  to  be 
alone  ;  come  in." 

"  Merze,  what  is  it  ?  I  have  seen  it  often  lately,  to-night 
more  than  all.  You  are  unhappy." 

"  You  know  my  life  ;  do  you  wonder  at  that  ?"  she 
asked,  sitting  in  her  old  place  on  the  ottoman  beside 
him,  her  head  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"No,  no,  child,"  he  answered,  smoothing  back  the 
hair  from  her  white  forehead.  "  I  feared  it  when  he 
came  back,  but  it  is  too  late  to  regret  now.  You  can  not 
hope  for  much  happiness,  but  try  to  be  a  philosopher 
and  be  content.  You  have  nothing  to  reproach  yourself 
with." 

"That  makes  the  trouble  no  lighter,"  she  said,  im- 
patiently. "  It  is  so  hard  to  be  a  philosopher  when  the 
blood  has  youth  in  it !" 

"  Ah,  my  child,  you  will  learn  better  if  sin  should  ever 
touch  your  life,"  he  answered,  earnestly.  "  The  knowl- 
edge of  wrong-doing  in  ourselves  can  embitter  our  lives 
as  no  wrong  from  another  can  ever  do ;  never  forget 
that.  There  is  no  grave  deep  enough  to  bury  remorse." 

"  Why  do  you  speak  of  that — of  sin  ?  There  has  been 
none  on  either  side.  He  has  done  me  no  wrong ;  but," 
she  added,  wearily,  "  it  is  fate,  I  suppose — all  these 
tangled  threads  of  life — and  in  some  way  it  seems  out  of 
our  power  ever  to  get  them  straight." 


196  MERZE  : 

She  sat  silently  a  little  while,  and  then,  looking  up, 
said  :  "  I  wish  to-night  I  was  like  Crista." 

"  Why  so  ?"  he  asked,  irritably.  He  had  never  become 
reconciled  to  the  idea  of  that  girl. 

"  Because  then  I  would  have  a  religious  faith,  such  as 
I  am  sure  she  would  lean  on  if  placed  in  such  a  position. 
She  would  pray  ;  to  be  sure  the  prayers  might  never  be 
answered,  but  hope  and  faith  are,  I  think,  the  greatest 
of  blessings  to  those  who  can  hold  them.  But  I,  I  have 
nothing." 

Guarda  looked  at  the  bowed  head  with  great  com- 
passion in  his  eyes.  He  had  trained  her  in  her  art,  he 
had  endeavored  to  teach  her  the  philosophies  garnered 
through  many  years  of  observation.  But  of  this  other, 
this  faith,  he  could  teach  her  nothing.  His  faith  through 
life  had  rested  on  himself  ;  honesty  and  truth  had  been 
his  only  creed,  and  he  had  found  it  sufficient  to  lead  him 
to  an  upright  life  with  charity  in  it  toward  all  men.  He 
had  dipped,  as  Merze  had,  into  many  beliefs  of  many 
sects  ;  he  had  some  knowledge  of  them,  but  had  never 
known  the  need  or  longing  for  any  as  he  felt  this  one  did 
now  beside  him. 

"My  poor  Merze,  my  poor  Merze  !"  he  said,  kindly, 
"be  content,  you  can  not  force  yourself  to  have  faith.  If 
it  does  not  come  to  you,  your  life  must  only  be  the 
stronger  in  order  to  stand  alone ;  and  it  is  strong,  a 
strong,  honest  heart.  To-night  you  are  nervous  and  a 
little  morbid,  that  is  all.  Weak  moments  come  to  all. 
To-morrow  you  will  be  yourself  again.  You  need  rest, 
sleep  ;  that  is  it.  Go  to  bed,  and  to-morrow  let  me  see 
your  face  brighter.  I  am  to  take  you  to  see  the  picture 
North  is  doing  of  you  as  Hesta.  Good-night,  my  child  , 
go  to  bed  and  dream  only  of  your  triumphs." 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  197 

"  My  triumphs  !"  she  thought,  as  she  tossed  with  wide, 
sleepless  eyes  through  the  night.  "When  a  multitude  of 
them  could  not  cover  the  scorn  I  feel  of  la«.e  for  my  own 
weakness !" 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

A  letter  came  to  Merze  from  Crista  the  next  morning. 
Her  pleasures  were  so  many  she  had  not  words  enough 
to  express  her  thanks.  She  had  made  a  new  friend — 
one  of  a  religion  that  was  strange  to  her — a  Quakeress. 

"  Listen,  Massa  Mark,"  said  Merze,  when  he  came 
for  her.  "  Let  me  read  you  a  portion.  Now  don't  be 
'  Mephisto  ' ;  listen." 

"  '  MY  SISTER  MERCY  : — I  wish  so  much  you  could  see 
this  dear  lady.  She  is  old,  but  the  face  has  not  lines  of 
care  as  so  many  have.  She  is  to  me  beautiful  with  the 
peace  such  as  seems  a  part  of  the  nuns'  lives.  Like 
Sister  Borgia,  I  think  she  could  say  much  of  her  life  has 
been  lived  in  heaven,  but  such  souls,  I  think,  make 
heaven  for  themselves  wherever  they  are.  Her  name  is 
Mrs.  Menturn.  She  has  asked  me  to  visit  her  in  her 
home  ;  it  is  some  distance  from  here.  She  is  a  harmony 
in  soft  grays  and  white  like  a  picture  ;  but  her  religion 
is  strange.  It  does  not  approve  of  pictures  or  statues. 
I  think  they  miss  many  pleasures.  Her  son,  she  says, 
has  many,  and  paints  himself,  but  he  is  not  a  Quaker,  nor 
was  his  father,  who  is  dead.  Her  son  is  in  the  world 
like  you.  She  seems  very  proud  of  him.  Her  soft 
'thees'  and  'thous,'  are  like  a  caress  when  she  speaks 
to  you.  I  asked  her  to  bless  me  last  night.  She  did  so 
and  kissed  me.  It  was  to  me  a  sacrament,  but  you  must 


198  MERZE : 

see  her  to  comprehend  my  enthusiasm.  To-day  she 
said  she  hoped  heaven  would  help  her  son  to  give  her 
such  a  daughter  as  I.  It  makes  me  happy  to  know  people 
care  so  much  for  me.' ' 

"  There  !"  said  Merze,  looking  up  from  the  page. 
"  Does  that  not  give  you  an  idea  of  the  purity  of  her 
character  ?  Her  letters  are  like  herself.  It  is  no  wonder 
they  all  love  her.  I  think  I  might  be  a  better  woman  if 
I  could  have  her  always  with  me ;  it  would  be  hard 
for  black,  bitter  thoughts  to  gain  an  entrance  where  she 
was." 

"Ugh  !  a  second  'Una,  I  suppose,"  grunted  Guarda. 
"  Such  magic  would  be  wasted  in  New  York.  Leave  her 
down  in  Delaware  ;  come  along." 

Merze  laughed  a  little  at  his  ill-humor.  He  never 
encouraged  her  to  harbor  any  thought  of  Crista  as  a 
companion. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  as  they  walked  along,  "  speak- 
ing of  Quakers,  Drande  is  connected  in  some  way  with 
that  sect.  I  forget  just  how  ;  he  is  not  one  himself,  but  has, 
I  think,  some  of  their  strait-laced  ideas  in  many  ways." 

"Indeed  !"  was  all  Merze  replied,  but  she  was  think- 
ing. "And,  perhaps,  he  has  somewhere  a  mother  like 
that,  his  ideal  of  what  woman  should  be.  Small  wonder 
then  if  the  rest  of  us  seem  hollow  and  of  little  worth  in 
comparison." 

Neither  Guarda  nor  herself  referred  again  to  their 
conversation  of  the  night  before.  They  both  avoided 
it.  There  are  so  many  moods  that  come  with  the  dark- 
ness, and  are  banished  by  the  sun's  rays,  and  the  old 
man  looking  at  her  face  as  she  smiled  at  him,  felt  it  was 
so  with  this  one.  Young  faces  do  not  show  easily  the 
effects  of  sleepless  nights. 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  199 

When  they  reached  North's  rooms  they  found  him 
working  busily. 

"But  come,'  he  said,  laying  down  his  brushes, 
"  Your  picture  was  only  put  in  the  frame  this  morning. 
We  took  it  to  Drande's  room.  The  light  is  much  better 
there — lucky  dog  to  get  it ;  come  along." 

Merze  hesitated  "  In  Mr.  Drande's  room  ?"  she 
said. 

"Yes,  in  the  other  corridor,"  said  Guarda.  "Did  I 
not  tell  you  they  had  rooms  in  the  same  building  ?  I  have 
never  been  to  see  him  myself  since  he  got  settled." 

She  saw  she  was  expected  to  go.  There  was,  of 
course,  no  real  reason  why  she  should  not,  and  North 
not  noticing  her  hesitation,  was  leading  the  way. 

Mark  took  her  by  the  hand,  walking  beside  her. 

"You  do  not  really  object  ?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  no!     Why  should  I?" 

"  You  two  never  seem  to  be  very  good  friends,  but  try 
to  be  more  kind  to  him  for  my  sake." 

She  gave  him  a  little  curious  glance  but  said  nothing. 

And  Drande,  lolling  back  in  a  chair  with  some  "copy  " 
which  he  was  endeavoring  to  correct,  found  the  pictured 
face  of  the  Hcsta  opposite  interfering  sadly  with  his  work, 
until  at  last  the  loose  sheets  dropped  to  the  floor  beside 
him,  as  he  gazed  at  the  rapt  face  and  fathomless  eyes. 
He  recognized  North's  tap  at  the  door,  and  called 
"  Come  in,"  without  moving  his  eyes  or  position. 
The  door  opened  and  the  soft  rustle  of  a  woman's  dress 
caused  him  to  turn.  In  the  doorway  stood  the  living 
Hesta,  with  a  half-reluctance  in  her  manner  as  the  old 
man,  a  step  in  advance,  led  her  in. 

In  one  moment,  as  her  eyes  met  his,  all  the  feeling 
against  her  disappeared,  the  half-doubts,  the  vague 


200  MERZE  : 

resentment,  vanished  as  he  went  forward  and  took  her 
other  hand.  His  words  were  friendly  and  courteous, 
which  Guarda  noted  with  pleasure. 

As  for  Merze,  she  scarcely  knew  what  he  said.  His 
words  were  scarcely  heard.  She  saw  only  the  gladness 
in  his  eyes  at  her  coming,  a  gladness  that  sent  the  blood 
quick  to  her  heart,  and  then  tingled  through  all  her 
veins  with  a  warmth  that  caused  her  eyes  to  drop 
beneath  his  own  as  she  drew  away  her  hand  lest  he 
should  feel  its  trembling.  For  one  instant  in  her  life  she 
realized  what  living  might  mean. 

It  was  as  a  flash  of  lightning  after  which  the  dark 
seems  dense  ;  close  in  its  track,  came  the  recollection  of 
what  she  was.  She  closed  her  eyes  blindly,  dizzily,  and 
sat  down  in  the  chair  nearest  her. 

She  heard  their  voices  speaking  of  the  picture.  His 
voice  was  among  the  others,  but  she  felt  his  eyes  were  on 
her  face,  that  he  was  keeping  the  attention  of  the  rest 
away  from  her.  "  That  must  not  be  ;  he  must  not  think 
me  so  weak  as  to  need  his  help,"  she  thought.  She 
stood  up,  one  hand  on  the  back  of  the  chair.  He,  see- 
ing it,  moved  toward  her,  but  with  an  effort  she  turned 
from  him  to  Guarda  and  spoke  a  few  words  of  comment 
on  the  picture  ;  what,  she  did  not  know,  anything  to 
show  an  interest  in  the  work  and  keep  Guarda  or 
Drande  from  noticing  any  change  in  her  manner,  or 
attributing  it  to  the  right  cause. 

The  picture  was  worthy  of  all  praise.  Guarda  was  in 
ecstasies  over  it.  It  had  been  bought  by  the  owner  of 
the  Chalet  where  it  was  to  be  hung.  Merze  thanked  the 
artist  kindly  for  the  interest  he  had  given  it,  and  spoke 
to  him  and  to  Guarda.  But  try  as  she  would  she  could 
not  find  any  word  of  pictures  or  art  to  say  to  Drande. 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  201 

"Sit  down  again,  Merze,"  said  Guarda,  noticing  her 
face.  "  You  look  a  little  pale  ;  tired,  I  suppose,  with 
the  walk  ;  it  was  rather  long." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Drande,  coming  forward,  "take  this 
chair,"  and  he  wheeled  the  most  comfortable  into 
position.  "Bachelors'  rooms  are  not  famed  for  their 
neatness,  and  this  is  scarcely  fit  for  the  entertainment 
of  a  lady,  but  consider  yourself  an  honored  guest  in  my 
domains." 

"  Fit !  nonsense  !"  growled  Guarda,  "  it  is  very  good  ; 
a  picture  in  itself.  I  don't  like  primness.  Now,  there's 
my  den,  it's  a  picture,  too,  for  some  Dickensonian  artist. 
But  this,  with  its  height  of  ceiling,  its  fluted  cornicing 
and  those  amber  curtains,  it  looks  quite  a  palace.  Who 
cares  for  a  few  papers  scattered  around  ?  Those  bronzes 
are  very  fine.  There  are  some  pictures  I  have  not  seen 
before — your  own  ?" 

"  Some  of  them,  done  years  ago.  I  don't  paint  now. 
I  have  learned  better,"  answered  Drande. 

He  was  watching  Merze  ;  her  manner  puzzled  him. 
Where  had  that  gleam  of  warmth  gone  that  had  flooded 
all  her  face  for  that  instant  while  her  hand  lay  in 
his?  She  scarcely  looked  at  him,  and  did  not  speak 
unless  to  answer. 

"Would  you  care  to  look  at  some  of  the  pictures  ?" 
he  asked,  as  Guarda  called  North  to  examine  a  peculiar 
chess  set  on  the  cabinet  at  the  far  end  of  the  room. 

"  If  you  please."  She  felt  anything  would  be  better 
,han  sitting  silent  beside  him,  fancying  he  might  hear  the 
beating  of  her  heart. 

She  rose  and  he  offered  his  arm  which  she  declined 
with  a  gesture.  He  looked  at  her  a  second  and  then 
led  her  past  all  the  others  on  the  wall,  giving  them  no 


202  MERZE  : 

glance,  until  he  came  to  a  little  curtained  alcove.  Beyond 
it  was  his  sleeping-room. 

The  amber  curtains  were  drawn  back  from  the  windows 
letting  in  the  warm  light.  On  the  wall  of  this  sheltered 
nook  hung  but  one  picture. 

She  looked  up  at  it.  Ah  !  if  she  had  only  the  right  to 
be  glad  and  tell  him  so  !  but  she  dared  not.  She  only 
said,  slowly  : 

"You  remembered  so  well?" 

"  And  you  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  and  tried  to  speak  calmly. 

"  I  remembered  always  your  kind  words.  I  never 
forgot  what  you  told  me  to  make  my  life.  If  I  have 
failed  it  has  never  been  because  I  have  forgotten  the 
snow-drops,"  and  she  tried  to  smile  as  she  said  it,  "but 
because,  because  fate  has  been  too  strong  for  me." 

Her  voice  was  trembling  in  spite  of  herself.  He  looked 
at  her  with  burning  eyes. 

"  Merze,"  he  began. 

"Hush,"  she  said,  putting  out  her  hand  pleadingly, 
"  we  must  not  speak  of  this  again.  The  dead  past  is  best 
in  its  grave.  I  only  wanted  you  to  know,  if  I  have  missed 
the  way,  if  I  have  lost  the  highest  strains  in  life's  music, 
believe  me  when  I  tell  you  it  is  not  a  careless  loss — it  is  I 
who  suffer — who  will  suffer — most." 

She  was  clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands  nervously. 
He  took  them  in  both  his  own  and  held  them. 

"  Don't,"  he  said,  gently.  "  I  do  not  know  what  I  have 
said  to  touch  you  like  this.  Come  here  to  the  window 
where  Guarda  and  North  can  not  see  you  ;  sit  here.  Do 
not  talk,  you  are  too  nervous." 

She  sat  in  the  chair  he  placed  for  her  so  the  others 
could  not  see  her  face. 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  203 

"  There,  that  is  better,"  he  said,  as  she  leaned  back  and 
closed  her  eyes,  "  rest,  and  let  me  talk.  You  are  unhappy, 
you  suffer.  I  can  see  now  how  much  your  bravado  was 
meant  to  hide.  Let  me  help  you,  the  load  may  be  lighter 
if  two  carry  it." 

"  Hush,  hush  !  No  one  could  help  me.  It  is  my 
own  I  only  ask  you  not  to  judge  me  harshly  again,  but 
I  myself  can  have  no  friend  such  as  you  would  be.  My 
life  must  be  alone." 

"But,  Merze " 

"  You  must  not  even  call  me  that,"  she  said,  rising. 

"You  did  not  resent  another  man's  calling  you  so  last 
night  !" 

The  quick  angry  words  leaped  to  his  lips  before  he 
could  check  them,  though  he  would  gladly  have  recalled 
them  as  he  saw  the  strange,  hopeless  look  in  her  face. 

"Was  that  necessary?"  she  asked,  sadly.  "I  thank 
you  though  ;  come  let  us  go  back." 

"  One  moment !" 

"  No  more.  What  moments  you  and  I  have  to  give 
each  other  have  been  given  here.  An  eternity  of  words 
can  not  change  my  life,  or  your  thoughts.'' 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Guarda  left  her  at  the  door  that  night. 

"I  have  an  engagement,"  he  explained.  "Drande 
would  take  no  excuse.  Their  club-room  is  just  below 
here.  I  am  to  have  supper  with  him.  I  am  getting  dis- 
sipated since  his  return  ;  are  you  not  jealous  ?" 

"  Just  a  little,"  she  answered,  holding  out  her  hand. 
"  Good-night ;  I  hope  you  will  pass  the  time  pleasantly." 


2Q4  MERZE : 

"  I  always  do  with  him.  There  are  not  many  who 
would  seek  out  and  try  to  make  pleasant  the  hours  of 
an  old  man,  but  he,  ah  !  he  is  different  from  most.  And 
to-day  I  noticed  you  did  as  I  asked.  You  talked  to  him 
more.  It  was  a  pleasure  for  me  to  see  that." 

"  Good-night,  Massa  Mark,"  she  said,  rather  abruptly, 
and  the  old  man,  thinking  only  that  she  did  not  care  to 
hear  his  praise  of  Drande,  smiled  a  little  as  he  clasped 
her  hand,  and  then  moved  off  down  the  street  toward 
the  club-rooms. 

"  A  pleasure  to  him,"  she  mused  as  she  sat  a  little  later 
divested  of  her  street  dress,  and  clothed  in  a  loose,  soft 
wrapper,  "a  pleasure  to  him."  She  leaned  back,  clasp- 
ing her  hands  across  her  eyes,  "and  I,  I  dare  not  even 
allow  myself  to  think  what  it  was  to  me." 

Yet  in  spite  of  herself  these  forbidden  thoughts  crept 
closer,  closer  to  her  heart  until  the  clasped  hands  dropped 
nerveless  beside  her. 

"  I  can  not  help  it,  I  can  not  help  it,"  she  muttered, 
half-fiercely,  to  herself.  It  was  a  weakness  in  herself  that 
she  had  not  submitted  to  willingly.  The  sense  of  duty 
was  strong  in  her  but  she  knew  that  the  warm  smile  in 
one  man's  eyes,  the  loving  tone  in  one  man's  voice,  had 
forever  made  duty  a  thing  to  be  struggled  for. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  thought,  musingly,  "  if  prayers,  such 
as  Crista's,  would  be  of  use  against  this  ?"  But  the 
warm  thrill  of  Love's  possession  told  her  that  it  never 
would,  and  her  heart — only  a  human  heart  after  all — 
could  not  steel  itself  against  the  sweetness  which  the 
knowledge  brought  her.  She  rose  impatiently  as  if  to 
shake  off  those  magical,  forbidden  bonds. 

"This  is  foolish,"  she  said,  clasping  and  unclasping 
her  hands  as  she  walked  back  and  forth.  "  Guarda 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  205 

called  me  strong.  He  should  see  me  now  !  But  I  must 
be  so,  I  am  a  woman,  not  a  young  girl,  to  give  way  to 
such  madness  as  this,  a  madness  such  as  must  have 
touched  Crista's  mother  long  ago  ;  and  I,  I  thought  of 
her  as  weakly  wicked  !  Who  knows  ?  She  might  have 
striven  against  it.  None  should  judge  save  those  who 
have  known  temptation." 

She  walked  herself  tired  in  endeavoring  to  escape, 
in  part,  those  surging  thoughts  that  had  so  much  of 
pain,  so  much  of  sweetness,  and  so  much  of  shame  for  her. 

"It  is  folly,"  she  whispered  under  her  breath,  though 
she  knew  it  was  dearer  than  all  the  sensible  things  of  her 
life. 

"I  wonder" — and  she  dropped  again  into  the  chair — 
"  I  wonder  if  people  who  can  coldly  analyze  their 
thoughts  and  actions,  and  judge  themselves  dispassion- 
ately, are  more  guilty  when  they  do  a  wrong  than  those 
who  conjure  up  excuses  for  their  guilt  and  really  believe 
themselves  the  victim  of  circumstances  as  so  many  do  ? 
I  can  not  do  that.  I  can  find  no  excuse  for  myself,  un- 
less it  is  that  of  an  ill-trained  soul.  Would  one  with  a 
training  such  as  Crista's,  or  that  saintly  Quakeress,  give 
way  to  such  guilt  ?  for  it  is  that.  If  he  knew  all,  he 
would  call  it  so  himself." 

She  did  not  think  about  going  to  bed  ;  she  had  forgot- 
ten everything  in  her  tempestuous  arguments  against  her- 
self, in  the  philosophies  that  would  have  held  good  in  all 
else,  but  did  not  alter  one  iota  this  new  strange  current 
that  was  drifting  into  her  life. 

When  did  philosophy  ever  yet  hold  its  own  against 
love  ? 

She  heard  the  doors  below  locked  and  the  family  dis- 
perse for  the  night.  In  the  kitchen  was  a  little  tinkle  of 


206  MERZE  : 

dishes.  The  servant  evidently  had  a  caller  and  was  mak- 
ing him  a  cup  of  tea.  Later  she  heard  the  back  door 
close  and  the  girl  ascending  the  stairs.  Still  she  sat  there 
thinking,  thinking  until  her  brain  was  reeling,  and  her 
eyes  ached.  At  last,  tired  of  what  seemed  a  hopeless 
struggle,  she  dropped  her  head  back  on  the  chair  and 
slipped  into  a  slumber  so  profound  that  hurrying  feet, 
loud  cries,  and  even  the  opening  of  her  door  did  not 
wake  her. 

Without  a  crowd  was  gathered.  There  were  hoarse 
shouts  among  firemen  who  were  moving  to  and  fro,  work- 
ing with  the  might  of  courage  against  the  flames  that 
were  leaping,  hissing  as  they  mounted  upward. 

The  family  were  out,  but  there  was  no  hope  for  furni- 
ture nor  aught  but  their  lives.  The  house  was  doomed, 
and  the  firemen's  energies  were  turned  toward  saving 
the  ones  adjoining  it. 

Merze  had  not  locked  her  door  and  had  not  turned  up 
the  light.  The  moon's  rays  had  shone  in  at  her  window, 
and  she  needed  no  other  light  for  her  thoughts.  As  the 
smoke  and  heat  awakened  the  family,  one  had  gone 
quickly  to  her  room.  The  door  was  opened,  and  a  glance 
at  the  bed  showed  it  had  no  inhabitant.  There  was  no 
time  for  surmises  ;  she  was  not  there,  that  was  all.  The 
form  sunk  in  the  depths  of  a  chair  in  the  shadowy  corner 
was  not  noticed. 

Guarda,  with  his  friend,  on  leaving  the  club-room 
turned  carelessly  in  the  track  of  hurrying  feet  until  it 
brought  them  to  where  the  old  man  could  see  the  house. 

"  O  God  !  Merze !"  That  was  all  he  said,  but  the 
other  asked  no  question.  It  told  him  all.  His  face  was 
white  as  Guarda's  as  they  hurried  forward. 

"  Everybody  safe,  sir,"  came  the  answer  to  his  quick 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  207 

demand.  A  long  breath  of  relief  came  from  the  old 
man's  breast.  He  recognized  one  of  the  family  in  the 
crowd,  and  made  his  way  through. 

"  Merze,  my  child,  where  is  she  ?" 

"  She  did  not  come  home  to-night.  Did  you  not 
know  ?" 

"  She  did  come.  I  brought  her  myself.  Where  is 
she  ?" 

"  I  only  know  she  was  not  in  her  room,  had  not  been 
in  her  bed." 

Guarda  staggered  back  blindly.  "  You  hear?"  he  said, 
as  Drande  caught  him.  "  They  have  not  looked.  She 
is  dead  in  there,  dead  !" 

As  he  spoke  a  thrill  of  sickening  horror  passed  over 
the  crowd.  Broken  ejaculations,  that  were  half  prayers, 
caused  them  both  to  raise  their  eyes,  and  in  one  window 
of  the  doomed  building  they  saw  a  woman  standing, 
reaching  out  her  hands  to  those  below. 

"  Merze  !  "  Guarda  whispered.  One  moment  she  stood 
there,  and  then  staggered  back,  leaving  the  black  smoke 
rolling  out  through  the  window. 

"  She  has  fallen  back  in  the  flames.  The  floor  has 
given  way.  God  help  her  !"  said  a  man  near  them. 

Some  men  were  placing  a  ladder  against  the  wall,  up 
which  the  flames  were  leaping  from  the  windows  below. 
When  in  position  the  firemen  glanced  into  each  other's 
faces.  It  was  work  for  a  volunteer. 

Before  a  word  could  be  spoken,  a  tall,  dark  man  from 
the  crowd  stepped  on  the  lowest  round. 

"  Give  me  your  coat  and  a  blanket,"  he  said  to  the  one 
nearest  him.  "  Don't  be  afraid.  I  am  not  a  novice. 
Give  plenty  of  water,  and  hold  yourselves  ready. ' 

The  next  moment  horrified  eyes  watched  him  gain  the 


208  MERZE : 

window,  stagger  back  for  a  moment  with  the  force  of  heat 
and  smoke,  and  then  disappear  in  the  blackness. 

The  floor  had  not  given  way.  He  felt  over  it  for  her 
form,  thinking  she  had  fallen  there,  fainting.  He  called 
once,  but  it  was  no  use ;  the  smoke  choked  him.  In  grop- 
ing he  pushed  against  a  door  that  opened  into  a  room 
where  the  air  was  clearer.  His  eyes,  smarting  with  the 
smoke  could  see  but  little.  A  small  window  gave  him  a 
glimpse  of  sky.  He  shattered  it  with  one  blow,  letting 
in  the  draught  that  gave  back  his  breath  to  him.  As  he 
turned  away,  the  white  shape  of  a  bed  could  be  seen,  and 
a  something  across  it,  to  which  his  hands  reached  eagerly. 
She  had  staggered  there,  half  suffocated,  her  face  buried 
in  a  pillow. 

He  lifted  her  in  his  arms  to  the  window,  where  the  air 
revived  her.  She  opened  her  eyes  to  see  his  own  bend- 
ing close  above. 

"Is  it  death  ?"  she  whispered. 

"  If  so,  it  is  for  us  both."     And  he  clasped  her  closer. 

"  That  is  best ;  to  die  so  in  your  arms — for" — and  her 
arm  encircling  his  neck  drew  his  face  closer,  and  her 
confession  needed  no  more  words. 

With  his  kiss  on  her  lips,  the  head  dropped  heavier 
on  his  arm.  She  had  fainted.  One  long  look  he  gave 
the  white  face  in  the  dim  light  ;  it  might  be  his  last. 
Then  enveloping  her  in  the  blanket,  he  lifted  her  and 
started  with  his  burden  back  through  the  outer  room 
that  was  now  like  a  furnace.  He  felt  the  floor  crack 
and  give  beneath  him.  Groping  blindly  he  reached  the 
opposite  wall,  and  felt  along  it  until  he  came  to  an 
opening.  A  shout  from  below  told  him  he  had  reached 
the  window.  For  the  first  time  he  dared  open  his  eyes, 
and  he  saw  below  the  sea  of  eager  faces.  Helpful  hands 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  209 

took  her  from  his  arms,  and  guided  his  uncertain  steps 
down  the  ladder  to  the  ground,  where  the  people  surged 
close  around  to  get  a  glimpse  of  him. 

Guarda,  kneeling  beside  Merze,  looked  up,  his  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  which  he  made  no  attempt  to  check. 

"  My  friend,  my  friend  !"  he  said,  tremulously.  "  God 
bless  you  !  You  are  safe  ?  You  are  not  injured  ?" 

"  I  think  not.     I  am  all  right — I " 

And  then  he  staggered,  reeled,  and  fell  as  a  stag  falls 
when  a  bullet  crashes  into  his  brain. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

"And  you  will  not  consent  ?"  Her  voice  sounded 
hopeless,  tired,  as  she  stood  there  at  the  window  with  her 
clear-cut  profile  in  the  range  of  her  husband's  vision. 
He  leaned  back,  lazily  admiring  its  effect  against  the 
dark  curtain  beside  her. 

"  I  do  not  see  why  I  should,"  he  answered,  carelessly  ; 
"things  are  well  enough  as  they  are.  You,  as  Miss 
Mignot,  are  ten  times  more  successful  than  you  would 
ever  have  been  as  Mrs.  Lawrence.  Let  well  enough 
alone,  and  sit  down,  please.  You  make  me  nervous 
standing  there  like  a  statue,  with  that  '  Christian  Advo- 
cate '  expression  on  your  face." 

She  did  so,  clasping  her  hands  closely  as  she  looked  at 
him,  and  said  earnestly : 

"  I  feel  now  that  such  a  promise  of  secrecy  should  never 
have  been  exacted  from  me  ;  it  was  wrong.  You  must 
have  known  it  is  best  for  a  woman  to  bear  her  husband's 
•name.  It — it  prevents  complications  in  many  ways." 

He  smiled  at  the  word  over  which  she  hesitated. 

14 


210  MERZE  : 

"  Complications  ?  Yes,  sometimes  ;  but  you  yourself 
are  not  a  woman  to  be  touched  by  them.  As  to  the 
others — let  them  look  to  themselves." 

Her  face  flushed  and  then  grew  pale  again. 

"  It  is  not  honest ;  it  is  misleading  people — " 

"  Certainly  ;  that  was  my  idea,  to  mislead  them  for 
your  own  good.  That  was  in  part  my  idea  in  asking 
your  promise.  Without  it  you  were  likely  to  throw 
prudence  and  tact  to  the  winds  on  the  slightest  provo- 
cation. Such,  as  for  instance,  the  '  complications '  of 
someone  else.  Is  it — "  and  he  watched  her  through 
half  closed  lids  as  he  spoke — "  is  it  for  the  sake  of  your 
hero  of  a  week  back  ;  are  you  afraid  of  his  youthful 
affections  becoming  engaged  ?  Don't  let  that  worry 
you  ;  he  has  a  good  constitution.  A  love  affair  never 
causes  any  man  serious  trouble  if  his  digestion  is  all 
right." 

She  looked  up  impatiently,  angrily. 

"  You  are  in  jest,"  she  said,  coldly.  "  I  am  in  earnest, 
serious.  You  should  be  my  friend  in  this.  I — I  want  to 
do  what  is  right,  but  you  are  making  it  very  hard  for  me. 
I  want,  so  far  as  I  know  how,  to  be  a  good  woman ;  to 
be  able  to  respect  myself." 

He  glanced  at  her  quickly. 

"  It  can  not  be  that  you — "  he  oegan,  and  then  laughed; 
"  no,  of  course  not.  If  it  were  you  who  were  interested 
you  would  be  glad  to  keep  your  husband  forever  in  the 
background  ;  any  woman  would." 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  her  face  white  as  with  anger. 

"  I  have  never  deserved  that  insult.  I  have  tried  to 
do  what  is  best.  Will  you  give  me  back  my  promise  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  admiringly.  He  had  always  admired 
her  most  when  she  "  showed  temper." 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  211 

"That  is  a  cool  request,"  he  answered,  rising  and 
leaning  on  the  back  of  his  chair  facing  her.  "You 
yourself  wished  to  be  released  from  such  an  incon- 
venience as  a  husband.  I  was,  I  think,  most  obliging  in 
that  matter.  Now  you  wish  to  be  known  as  Mrs. 
Lawrence  ;  at  least  to  a  few  special  friends,  and  for 
some  reason  I  am  not  quite  acquainted  with.  No,  my 
dear  Merze,  no.  If  you  wish  to  be  Mrs.  Lawrence  again 
there  is  only  one  way  in  which  it  can  be  settled." 

"  And  that  ?"  she  asked,  eagerly. 

"  Is  by  taking  the  husband  as  well  as  the  title." 

She  made  him  no  answer,  only  looked  at  him. 

And  he,  half  angered  as  he  was  at  the  disgust  in  her 
face,  laughed  a  little  carelessly  and  sauntered  out  with- 
out further  words. 

It  was  three  weeks  after  the  fire.  Guarda  had  her 
taken  that  night  to  a  hotel  near  the  theatre,  a  comfort- 
able old-style  house,  where  she  was  cared  for  so  kindly 
that  she  had  remained  there  ever  since.  Drande  had 
also  been  taken  there,  but  the  next  day  had  asserted 
himself  able  to  be  moved  to  his  own  rooms.  He  had 
been  exhausted  by  the  heat  that  night  when  he  fell  like  a 
dead  thing  among  the  people,  but  that  was  all  ;  he  had 
escaped  the  flames  miraculously,  considering  what  he  had 
waded  through.  His  face  was  scorched,  but  not  deeply 
enough  to  be  scarred.  His  hands,  alone,  were  badly 
burned,  blackened  and  crisped  by  the  hot,  flying  cinders, 
which  he  had  not  felt  with  her  in  his  arms.  He  had 
shielded  her  so  well  that  not  a  shaft  of  the  hungry  flames 
had  touched  the  white  flesh.  His  first  question  when  he 
revived  and  found  Guarda  and  a  doctor  beside  him 
was: 

"  She—?" 


212  MERZE  : 

"Is  safe,  has  revived,  is  not  even  scorched,"  answered 
Guarda,  thankfully. 

"Bring  her — let  me  see." 

"  Have  her  come  if  she  can  walk  in,"  said  the  doctor, 
lowly.  "  This  may  be  serious  ;  he  may  have  inhaled  that 
flame  ;  if  so,  humor  him  while  you  can." 

She  came  in,  led  by  Guarda,  and  stood,  white  and  silent, 
beside  him.  Her  hair,  unnoticed,  had  come  loose  and 
hung,  a  bronze,  rippling  mass,  over  her  shoulders.  To 
the  man  lying  there  she  seemed  the  fairest  thing  his  eyes 
ftad  ever  rested  on. 

"Merze,"  he  whispered,  and  the  name  sounded  a 
caress  as  he  breathed  it  ;  and  then,  lower,  so  that  the 
movement  of  the  lips  and  the  light  in  his  eyes  told  her 
more  than  the  sound,  "  Mine  /" 

And  she  could  only  stand  there  and  look  at  him  with  a 
depth  of  dumb  woe  in  her  eyes.  She  dared  not  trust 
herself  to  touch  even  his  hands  with  hers,  though  all  her 
awakened  nature  longed  to  kneel  there  beside  him  and 
kiss  the  scorched  face  and  white  lips.  A  trembling  crept 
through  all  the  slender  form  as  she  stood  there,  until  she 
raised  her  hands,  clasping  them  close  to  her  throat  as  if 
to  silence  the  long  shivering  breaths  that  were  growing 
into  sobs. 

"  I  can't  stand  it,"  she  half  whispered,  afraid  to  trust 
her  voice.  "  Massa  Mark,  take  me  away,  take  me  away  !" 

And  poor,  blind,  gentle  Mephisto,  keen-eyed  in  all 
else,  saw  in  her  agitation  only  a  deep  remorse  for  her  old 
manner  toward  him — a  deep  gratitude  for  which  no 
words  could  be  found. 

Thrice  since  that  she  had  seen  him,  but  it  was  in  the 
presence  of  Guarda,  who  insisted  that  it  was  only  a 
courtesy  she  owed  him  to  go  and  see  a  man  who  was 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  213 

confined  to  his  room,  unable  to  leave  it  through  injuries 
received  for  her  sake. 

But  it  was  martyrdom  to  see  his  face  brighten  at  her 
entrance  and  then  grow  questioning  and  puzzled  at  her 
manner,  which  she  tried  so  hard  to  make  only  kind. 
He  could  say  nothing,  for  Guarda's  ears  were  there 
to  hear  ;  he  could  not  write,  for  his  hands  were  still 
bandaged.  But  she  knew  he  would  soon  be  able  to 
leave  the  room,  and  his  eyes  showed  that  his  first  visit 
would  be  to  her. 

And  what  could  she  say  ?  There  was  no  retracting 
that  clasp  of  arms,  that  kiss,  and  the  low,  heart-freighted 
words  when  she  thought  death  had  come  to  them. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  tell  him  the  miserable 
truth — if  Lawrence  consented — and  then  ask  him  to  go 
away.  She  felt,  with  a  heart  that  beat  between  pain  and 
pleasure  at  the  thought,  that  it  was  the  only  way  in  which 
he  ever  would  leave  her.  The  thought  of  his  contempt 
was  bitter,  but  she  tried  to  forget  it  and  do  v/hat  was 
right,  what  would  be  just. 

And  after  all  it  had  been  of  no  use.  Lawrence  had 
refused  her  permission  to  tell,  or  had  made  it  a  condi- 
tional affair,  to  which  he  knew  she  would  never  consent. 
She  thought  of  Guarda  ;  but  of  what  use  to  confide  in 
him  ?  If  he  told  Drande  the  truth,  might  not  Lawrence 
revenge  himself  on  her  by  claiming  her  as  his  wife  ? 

She  did  not  know  much  about  law,  but  supposed  he 
would  have  that  power  if  he  chose  to  assert  it.  But  would 
he  ?  Lately  she  did  not  feel  sure  of  him  in  any  way  ;  he 
had  a  little  more  of  insolence  and  bravado  in  his  manner 
to  her.  He  could  not  but  see  that  she  shrank  from  all 
intercourse  with  him,  especially  since  he  had  been  drink- 
ing to  any  extent,  and  it  nettled  him  into  the  desire  to 


214:  MERZE  : 

show  her  that,  after  all,  he  could  be  master  if  he  chose. 
It  was  only  the  brute  nature  stirred  by  dissipation  until 
it  came  uppermost. 

She  scarcely  understood  the  cause,  but  at  times  was 
filled  by  a  half  fear  of  him.  He  was  stopping  at  the 
same  hotel.  That  night  Guarda  had  not  stopped  to 
think,  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment  had  even 
neglected  to  mention  it  to  her,  and  the  day  after  the  fire 
she  met  him  in  the  hall. 

"  You — you  live  here  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  do  ;  was  just  on  my  way  to  pay  my  respects  and 
congratulate  you  ;  it  was  a  narrow  escape." 

"  Yes  ;  I  thank  you.  I  am  quite  recovered  from  the 
fright." 

"  Which  means,"  and  he  smiled  disagreeably,  "  that 
my  visit  is  not  necessary." 

"  I  think,  if  you  do  not  mind  me  saying  it,  that  it  is 
best  for  us  to  see  as  little  of  each  other  as  possible.  If 
I  had  known  you  were  here  I  should  not  have  come." 

"Oh!  you  wouldn't?  Look  here,"  and  he  laid  his 
hand  heavily  on  her  shoulder.  "  Does  it  ever  occur  to 
you  that  a  man  may  rebel  at  being  treated  like  an  outcast, 
a  leper,  scarcely  tolerated  ?  I  advise  you  not  to  get  so 
high-and-mighty,  my  lady,  you  and  Mark  both." 

"  And  I  would  advise  you  to  remember  that  we  are  in 
a  public  hall,  and  also  to  take  your  hand  from  my 
shoulder,"  she  answered,  coldly  and  contemptuously. 

He  dropped  his  hand,  and  his  face,  flushed  before  with 
drink,  now  flamed  with  anger. 

"  So !  my  touch  is  contamination,  is  it  ?  You  are 
forgetting  considerable,  it  seems  to  me  ;  and  you  will,  of 
course,  leave  the  house  now,  eh  ?  Well,  you  shan't  do 
it." 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  215 

She  looked  up  in  fear,  involuntarily  throwing  her  hand 
out  toward  him.  He  saw  it,  and  said  : 

"  Oh,  I  shan't  trouble  you  !  only  it's  well  for  you  to 
remember  who  I  am,  and  for  the  present  you  remain 
where  you  are  ;  do  you  heed  ?  It's  only  a  whim  of  mine 
but  it  is  best  obeyed." 

And  then  he  lounged  away  and  left  her  there  speech- 
less, numb  with  the  dread  which  his  words  had  brought. 

They  had  not  exchanged  words  after  that  until  the 
day  she  had  sent  for  him  and  asked  him  to  give  her  leave 
to  speak  of  her  marriage.  Guarda  had  spoken  about 
changing  hotels,  but  she  had  replied  that  she  was  very 
comfortable  and  would  remain  where  she  was.  Of  what 
use,  she  thought,  would  it  be  to  trouble  him. 

She  seemed  hemmed  in  on  every  side.  And  that  day, 
when  Lawrence  left  her  room  after  telling  her  his  con- 
ditions, she  sat  covering  her  face  with  her  hands  and 
trying  to  think  of  some  exit  from  this  horrible  labyrinth  ; 
but  all  to  no  purpose,  except 

And  she  rose  swiftly  and  walked  back  and  forth  to 
escape  the  thought  that  came  to  her.  "  He  loves  me. 
What  else  matters  ?" 

"It  would  serve  him  right,"  she  muttered,  thinking  of 
Lawrence,  "  and  sometimes,  sometimes  I  believe  he  half 
hates  me,  that  it  would  be  a  pleasure  for  him  to  know 
that  I  had  done  some  wrong,  if  only  to  place  me  on  a 
level  with  that  other  woman.  But  he,"  and  the  memory 
of  the  one  voice  that  made  music  of  her  name  as  he 
breathed  it,  came  to  her  ;  "  he — no,  no  ;  he  must  never, 
through  any  act  of  mine,  lose  the  right  to  respect  me 
His  best  love  could  not  be  given  to  such  a  woman.  A 
man  never  forgets  a  woman's  weakness,  even  though  she 
be  strong  in  all  else  save  her  love  for  him.  There  would 


216  MERZE  : 

always  be  that  reproach,  and  it  would  kill  me  to  see  it  in 
his  eyes." 

She  picked  up  a  book  at  random  from  some  that 
Guarda  had  left  for  her.  She  did  not  notice  the  title  ; 
it  did  not  matter  ;  anything  would  do  if  it  only  helped 
her  escape  from  her  own  thoughts  for  a  few  moments. 

Afterward  she  fancied  some  occult  power  must  have 
caused  her  hand  to  linger  on  the  one  book.  All  were 
alike  new  to  her.  Why  was  it  blindly,  carelessly,  chosen, 
the  one  whose  contents  were  to  affect  her  life  ?  It  was 
hard  to  get  up  an  interest  in  it ;  her  own  thoughts  would 
creep  in.  But  she  put  them  half  fiercely  aside.  She  had 
felt  as  if  she  was  going  mad  while  walking  back  and 
forward  there  ;  her  thoughts  were  commingling,  driving 
her  half  distracted.  In  some  way  she  must  try  to  forget 
for  awhile  this  horrible  thing — her  marriage  which  nothing 
but  death  could  free  her  from.  Death  !  She  had  never 
hoped  or  even  thought  of  it  before,  but  why  not  ?  He 
might  die  ;  he  was  not  young.  She  might  yet  be  freed 
in  that  way. 

"  And,"  she  thought  as  she  turned  over  the  leaves,  "  I 
would  kill  either  him  or  myself  before  I  would  ever  again 
live  as  I  did." 

It  was  a  French  translation  she  was  reading :  "  A 
Sheep  in  Wolf's  Clothing."  It  was  not  a  particularly 
bright  book  or  one  calculated  to  amuse  her,  though  there 
were  cleverly-drawn  characters  in  it.  Glancing  care- 
lessly down  the  page,  her  eye  was  arrested  by  the  account 
of  a  death  by  suffocation.  A  man  in  a  drunken  stupor 
had  died  so.  The  only  aid  to  it  had  been  a  napkin  or 
cloth  saturated  with  water  and  placed  ove,r  his  face, 
pressed  closely  about  the  mouth  and  nostrils.  No  mark 
of  violence,  no  sign  of  drugs,  or  blackened  visage  to 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  217 

greet  those  who  found  him  in  the  morning.  He  had 
simply  slept  away.  Only  a  drunken  man,  a  napkin 
and  some  water,  swift,  silent,  sure. 

Her  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  page  with  a  horrible 
fascination  in  it.  She  lay  perfectly  still,  breathless  from 
the  force  of  a  thought  that  had  come  to  her.  Even  her 
lips  were  white.  The  blood  seemed  all  driven  into  her 
heart,  which  beat  as  if  bursting.  Then  with  a  half  scream 
of  terror  she  flung  the  book  from  her  and  sank  trembling 
and  shivering  on  the  floor. 

"  No,  no,  no,  not  that — never  that!"  she  whispered, 
sobbing  as  she  lay  there. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

A  half  hour  later  Guarda  and  Drande  stood  together 
on  the  steps  of  the  hotel.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had 
been  out.  His  face  showed  no  traces  of  scars  ;  only  the 
hair  and  beard  were  clipped  close  where  the  flame  had 
singed  it,  and  one  hand  was  still  bound  up. 

"  I  think,"  said  Guarda,  "  that  I  will  have  you  go  up 
alone,  unannounced,  and  surprise  her.  I  know  she  is  in. 
Her  parlor  is  the  one  on  the  corner  up  there.  After 
awhile  I  will  come  up.  You  go  first.  She  does  not 
expect  you  so  soon,  and  it  will  be  a  thankful  surprise  to 
her." 

And  so  it  came  that,  through  the  old  man's  boyish 
love  for  a  surprise,  or  a  trick,  Drande  was  to  see  her  first, 
alone.  As  he  passed  up  the  stairs  a  door  in  the  lower 
hall  opened,  and,  glancing  down,  he  could  see  someone 
standing  there  watching  him.  It  was  Lawrence.  The 
incident  annoyed  him.  Why  he  scarcely  knew,  unless  it 
was  an  antipathy  he  had  always  felt  toward  him.  But 


218  MERZE  : 

the  thought  that  he  was  so  near  her  dispelled  all  else 
that  was  unpleasant  in  his  mind. 

He  tapped  at  the  door  with  a  small  rattan  cane  he 
carried.  His  hands  were  not  able  as  yet  for  such  exer- 
cise. Merze,  lying  face  downward  on  the  lounge, 
thought  it  was  a  porter  with  coal,  and  called,  "come  in," 
only  moving  her  position  slightly  and  shading  her  eyes 
with  her  hand.  She  had  not  been  crying.  If  she  only 
could  she  felt  it  might  lift  in  part  that  horrible  sickening 
weight  which  had  settled  around  her  heart  and  made  her 
tremble  and  start  at  every  sound. 

She  was  glad  even  the  porter  had  come  in,  though  she 
did  not  look  at  him  or  speak.  But  it  was  a  human 
presence,  a  something  beside  the  phantoms  of  her  own 
imagination.  She  was  afraid  to  be  alone  any  longer. 
She  would  tell  him  to  send  the  housekeeper,  chamber- 
maid, anyone.  She  dropped  her  hand  from  her  eyes  to 
look  up.  She  caught  one  glimpse  of  his  face,  and  the 
next  instant  he  was  kneeling  beside  her. 

"  Merze  !"  and  his  face  was  filled  with  amazement, 
"  you  are  ill,  suffering,  and  they  never  told  me  !" 

His  arm  was  about  her,  his  face  close  to  hers.  She 
raised  her  hands,  pushing  him  a  little  away,  and,  placing 
his  face  between  her  palms,  held  it  so,  looking  at  it  long, 
earnestly,  and  with  love  as  great  as  the  sadness  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Don't,"  she  said  quietly  as  she  could,  "  don't ;  you 
must  not  ever  again.  We — we  made  a  mistake  that 
night — but — we  must  not  go  on  making  it." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  looked  at  her. 

"You  mean  to  say" he  began,  but  she  rose,  also, 

throwing  out  her  hand  pleadingly. 

"  Don't  look  like  that.     I — I  can't  stand  everything — 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  219 

not  your  anger — but  that  night  I  was  frightened,  nervous. 
I  did  not  know  what  I  said.  Forget  it  and " 

"  Stop,"  he  said,  not  unkindly,  but  decidedly,  "  you 
are  telling  me  what  is  not  true.  You  did  know  what  you 
said,  and  more,  you  can  not  look  me  in  the  face  and  tell 
me  you  did  not  mean  it." 

She  clasped  and  unclasped  her  hands  as  he  had  seen 
her  do  that  day  in  his  room  when  her  agitation  was  so 
great.  Her  form  was  trembling  as  with  suppressed  sobs. 
His  voice,  with  the  tone  of  loving  mastery  in  it,  had  un- 
nerved her.  She  raised  first  her  face,  then  her  eyes,  to 
his,  "  I  did  not  mean " 

But  she  could  say  no  more.  His  eyes  were  smiling 
down  into  hers  and  she  sat  down,  covering  her  face  with 
her  hands.  "  I  can  not — I  can  not — have  pity,"  she  said 
brokenly.  It  was  the  first  time  in  all  the  wretchedness 
of  her  life  that  she  had  asked  it  of  anyone. 

"  I  have  love.  That  covers  everything,  my  Merze, 
mine.  It  is  you  who  must  be  pitiful — to  yourself  and 
me." 

"  I  can  not,  I  dare  not,"  she  answered,  without  raising 
her  face  toward  him.  "I  can  only  ask  you  to  go  away." 

"  Merze  !"  and  he  came  close  to  her,  laying  his  hand 
on  her  head.  She  sprang  from  under  it  and  staggered 
back  a  little  to  the  table  against  which  she  rested  one 
hand  for  support. 

"  Now  listen,"  she  said,  speaking  rapidly,  decidedly, 
though  she  swayed  like  a  reed  in  the  wind,  "  listen  to  me. 
You  saw  just  now  that  I  cared  for  you.  I  was  weak,  nervous 
through  much  suffering,  else  you  should  not  have  known 
it.  That  night  I  thought  we  were  to  die  there  or  you 
never  should  have  known.  But  you  must  not  think, 
never  for  one  moment,  that  we  can  ever  be  anything  to 


220  MERZE : 

each  other.  That  is  why  I  try  to  prevent  you  saying  the 
things  that  are  useless,  that  will  always  be  useless." 

"  Always  ?" 

"  Nothing  but  death  can  change  it." 

"  Merze,  what  is  it  ?  There  is  something  that  prevents 
you  telling  me  the  cause  of  your  altered  manner.  I  did 
you  a  service  a  week  ago.  There  is  my  hand  in  testi- 
mony. I  ask  in  return  that  you  tell  me  why  you  will 
not  give  yourself  to  me  when  you  say  that  you  love 
me." 

He  held  out  his  unbandaged  hand  to  her,  the  shapely, 
slender,  firm  hand  it  had  been ;  the  hand  of  an  artist, 
and  now 

She  closed  her  eyes  with  a  long,  shivering  breath  as 
she  looked.  There  were  crisped,  drawn,  scars  over  it 
that  were  there  for  life.  One  finger  was  distorted  where 
it  had  been  burned  to  the  bone,  and  its  shapely  beauty 
was  gone  forever. 

"  Do  not  think  that  I  mean  to  remind  you  of  any  in- 
debtedness," he  continued  ;  "it  is  not  that,  I  would 
endure  it  all  over  again  to  see  the  same  light  in  your 
eyes  for  one  moment.  Only  for  your  own  sake,  as  well 
as  mine,  will  you  not  tell  me  ?" 

She  could  only  stand  there  with  burning,  tearless  eyes, 
and  shake  her  head  in  answer.  At  the  sight  of  the  hand 
she  longed  to  kneel  and  kiss  she  could  not  speak. 

"  Merze,  is  it  some  person  that  is  between  us  ?" 

She  stood  silent. 

"  Is  it  a  lover  ?  someone  you  met  before  me  ?" 

"  It  is  no  lover,"  she  answered  slowly.  That  at  least 
she  felt  she  could  say. 

"Then  it  is  some  fancied  disgrace,  some  remnant  of 
your  old  life,  of  your  family  ;  some  such  a  secret  as  that 


THE   STORY    OF   AN    ACTRESS.  221 

of  the  shooting,  of  your  father's  death.  My  child,  that 
is  of  the  past ;  whatever  it  is,  it  can  not  change  my  love. 
I  do  not  ask  to  know  it.  If  you  have  any  sorrow  to 
bear,  let  me  help  you  to  forget  it,  if  I  can  not  help  you  to 
carry  it.  Be  my  wife." 

"Don't !"  she  said,  sobbingly,  "you  are  only  making 
it  harder  for  me.  I  am  only  trying  to  do  what  is  right. 
Even  if  I  could  tell  you,  it  would  not  alter  things.  I 
could  never  be  your  wife ;  don't  tempt  me  to  bring  dis- 
grace on  you,  on  myself,  for  that  is  what  it  would  mean 
if  I  listened  to  your  love,  to  your  wishes." 

"Yet  you  say  you  love  me." 

"  You  know,"  she  said  simply,  looking  at  him.  He 
did  know.  There  was  no  need  of  words  when  she  looked 
in  his  face.  The  hopeless  width  of  desolation  in  her 
eyes  showed  him  how  much  this  love  was  to  her,  though 
she  was  trying  to  steady  her  hands  and  push  it  beyond 
her  reach. 

"Then  I  will  wait,"  he  said,  smilingly,  decidedly.  She 
looked  at  him  questioningly  but  said  nothing. 

"Of  course  I  will,"  he  continued.  "We  care  for  each 
other,  but  you  say  there  is  some  obstacle  in  the  way  of 
our  love  or  marriage.  No  obstacle  can  change  our  love, 
dear  ;  that  is  ours,  our  own.  As  to  this  secret  which  you 
say  nothing  but  death  can  change — well,  we  will  wait  for 
the  death  of  whatever  it  is,  and  be  friends  in  the  mean- 
while. There  is  nothing  to  prevent  that,  is  there  ?  And 
fate  will  be  kind  to  us,  you  will  see.  My  darling,  mine, 
do  you  think  I  would  leave  you  now,  knowing  how  you 
care  for  me  ?  That  is  too  much  to  expect  of  any  man. 
You  seem  now  as  if  you  have  always  belonged  to  me  and 
I  think  you  have,  dear.  That  night  in  '  Hesta,'  you 
remember,  I  looked  angry  ?  Well,  it  seemed  even  then 


222  MERZE  : 

that  you  were  giving  to  those  people  what  should  have 
been  only  mine.  It  was  selfish  ;  yes,  and  unjust,  but  my 
thoughts  of  you  had  been  dreaming,  ideal  fancies,  and 
then " 

"  Oh,  hush,  hush,  hush!"  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands 
pleadingly,  "  you  will  not  understand,  and  you  are  kill- 
ing me  with  those  words  !  There  can  be  no  friendship 
between  us  ! — Must  I  tell  you  ?  I — I  love  you  too  well  ; 
that  is  why  I  ask  you  to  go  now  while  I  have  strength." 

"Merze,  my  darling " 

"Don't  come  near  me,  don't  touch  me!"  she  said, 
half  fiercely,  "  but  hear  me  !  Your  ideal,  you  fancied  me. 
Listen  ;  would  your  ideal  be  a  woman  who  was  a  mur- 
deress at  heart  ?  That  is  what  I  have  been  here  in  this 
room  to-day.  Ah,  I  thought  that  would  make  you 
shrink  from  me !"  as  he  drew  back,  looking  at  her  in 
amazement.  For  one  moment  he  thought  she  had  gone 
mad.  She  continued  rapidly,  fiercely,  as  if  it  was  a  sort 
of  relief  to  accuse  herself  of  the  thing  which  had  filled 
her  with  a  dread  of  her  own  wild  soul.  "  You  thought 
me  ill,  suffering  when  you  entered.  It  was  only  the 
signs  in  my  face  of  the  struggle  I  had  with  my  own 
nature,  the  nature  that  prompted  me  to  rid  myself  of  the 
obstacle  that  stood  between  us  ;  and  how  ?  To  kill ! 
You  do  not  believe  me,  perhaps,  look  here,"  and  she 
moved  swiftly  across  the  room  where  the  book  still  lay — 
"  See  !  there  is  the  page  that  told  me  how  to  do  it ;  a 
cowardly  way.  That  is  your  ideal  as  she  is,  and  the 
thing  that  tempted  me  is  my  love  for  you.  Now  do  you 
understand  why  I  ask  you  to  go  ?" 

He  stood  looking  at  her  in  wonder,  in  horror,  in  pity. 
Could  this  be  the  woman  of  whom  so  many  spoke  as 
cold,  lacking  fire  for  aught  save  the  Galateas  or  Hestas  ? 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  223 

"  My  poor  child,  my  poor  child  !"  he  said,  with  a  great 
love,  a  great  compassion  in  his  voice,  "you  surely  need  a 
friend  now  if  ever  you  did  in  your  life.  Come  sit  here  ; 
you  are  trembling,  and  your  hands  are  like  ice.  You  are 
ill  that  you  fancy  those  things."  He  led  her  unresistingly 
to  a  chair.  All  her  strength  was  gone  with  that  wild 
burst  of  passionate  self-accusation. 

"  You  will  despise  me  now  and  go  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Why  should  I  despise  you  for  the  wild  imaginings  of 
an  overtaxed  mind  ?  No,  but  I  will  say  no  more  of  love 
since  I  see  how  serious  this  affair  is  to  you.  But  you 
must  not  accuse  yourself  of  such  an  intention.  No,  my 
Merze,  just  for  the  moment  the  thought  may  have  come 
to  you,  but  it  will  not  remain.  The  horror  it  has  been 
to  you  shows  plainly  enough  that  you  would  never  have 
done  the  thing  you  spoke  of." 

She  had  not  raised  her  eyes  from  the  floor  after  he  led 
her  to  the  sofa  and  sat  beside  her.  A  shame  had  crept 
over  her  for  the  things  she  had  said  in  her  passion,  in 
the  weakness  and  strength  of  her  love  for  him. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  his  last  words, 
"  one  never  knows  themselves  until  they  are  tried.  The 
thought  coming  to  me  suddenly  almost  stopped  my  heart 
from  beating.  It  has  filled  me  with  a  sickening  dread 
of  myself  ever  since.  Perhaps  now,  that  I  have  told  you, 
I  will  not  think  of  it  so  much.  It  seems  a  load  off  my 
mind.' 

"  My  poor  Merze  !" 

"  Don't,"  she  said,  raising  her  hands  to  her  throat  as 
if  to  quiet  some  emotion  within,  "  don't  speak  to  me  like 
that,  kindly.  I  am  afraid,  afraid  I  will  cry.  Don't  pity 
me,  don't  speak,  just  yet." 

He  sat  silent  holding  her  hand  while  all  her  frame 


224  MERZE  : 

trembled  with  the  force  of  the  sobs  she  was  trying  to 
suppress.  Her  eyes  were  looking  out  through  the  window 
seeing  nothing  but  her  own  hopeless  face.  The  slow 
tears  were  falling  on  their  clasped  hands.  After  a  little 
she  grew  calmer.  He  sat,  his  own  heart  full  of  a  dull 
ache  for  her,  but  saying  nothing  until  she  spoke. 

"  I — I  have  never  been  a  good  woman  ;  that  is  good 
in  a  religious  way.  I  have  read  much,  but  it  has  taught 
me  in  a  way  to  disbelieve  the  things  that  give  most 
women  their  hope  and  faith.  To-day  everything  seems 
to  have  changed.  There  must  be  a  soul,  a  thing  sent  to 
us  from  some  heaven,  a  something  separate  from  the 
flesh  ;  if  not  what  is  that  thing  which  recoils,  shudder- 
ing, from  the  thought  of  evil  ?  One's  hand  or  foot  does 
not  recoil.  It  is  a  nameless  something  which  has  done 
more  to  convert  me  than  all  the  religious  books  I  have 
ever  studied." 

He  saw  that  she  was  trying  to  think  and  talk  of  some 
subject  besides  themselves  until  she  would  get  calmer. 

"If  you  are  as  honest  in  your  faith  when  it  comes  as 
you  have  been  in  your  doubt,  you  will  yet  have  a  higher 
hope  than  any  that  has  touched  your  life,  my  Merze  ; 
and  it  will  come." 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said,  wearily,  "the  wickedness 
in  me,  as  I  have  seen  it,  may  forever  keep  away  the  pure 
thoughts  and  hopes  that  come  to  good  women.  Lying 
here  to-day  I  wondered  if  evil  was  in  the  blood  through 
generations  as  other  diseases  are.  If  so  you  must  not 
expect  too  much  that  is  good  of  me.  I  am  afraid  mine 
was  not  tinged  with  the  highest  morality  and  purity  to 
begin  with,  and  I,  so  far  in  my  life,  have  added  no 
nobility  to  it." 

"  I  do  not  believe  it,"  he  answered  warmly,  "  any  more 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  225 

than  I  believe  your  own  morbid  self-accusations.  You 
are  a  merciless  judge  of  yourself." 

"  Perhaps  because  I  know  myself  so  well." 

"  I  do  not  think  you  do  ;  you  imagine  yourself  weak, 
in  morality  and  will,  simply  because  you  are  weak  in  the 
faith  which  most  good  women  have.  You  should  know 
your  own  sex  before  you  judge  yourself  so.  Believe  me, 
Merze,  you  are  stronger  than  most  women,  and  God  help 
to  keep  you  so  !" 

"  I  think,"  she  said  after  a  little,  "you  are  giving  me 
a  hope  and  a  faith  in  myself  that  I  never  had  before. 
You  have  helped  me  much.  I  must  ask  you  to  go  away, 
or  not  to  come  where  I  am,  but  always,  always  I  will 
thank  you  for  to-day,  for  the  generosity  that  gave  respect 
to  my  weakness." 

"  Not  weakness,  but  a  strength  of  love  such  as  few 
women  could  have  conquered  from  principle,  duty,  or 
whatever  the  thing  is  that  stands  between  us.  But  we 
will  not  speak  of  that  now.  I  will  leave  you  before 
Guarda  comes.  You  are  quieter  now,  but  not  enough  so 
to  talk  to  others.  I  shall  not  be  able  to  leave  for  several 
weeks.  I  will  not  go  without  seeing  you  once  at  any 
rate.  Surely  you  will  not  refuse  me,  will  not  refuse  us 
both  that  much  ?" 

"  I  would  want  you  to  come  just  once.  I  would  be 
better,  less  nervous  then.  To-day  I  have  had  much, 
more  than  you  know,  to  contend  with,  and  it  has  left  me 
half  mad  I  think." 

"  May  I  write  you  ?  Do  not  say  no,"  as  she  shook  her 
head,  smiling  sadly.  "  You  will  need  someone  to  speak 
to  ;  you  have  no  friend." 

"  I  have  Massa  Mark.    Surely  he  has  been  my  friend." 

"  Does  he  know  your  trouble  ?" 

15 


226  MERZE  : 

"  He  knows  part  of  it.  Not  my  wicked  thoughts  of 
to-day,  and  not  that  I — that  you — 

"  That  we  love  each  other,"  he  finished,  "  well  we  will 
not  tell  him  now.  But  sometime  in  the  future  we  may 
be  able  to,  and  until  then  you  must  let  me  write  you,  else 
you  are  sure  to  get  low-spirited  and  morbid.  I  insist  on 
that." 

"  Your  letters  will  be  welcome,"  she  said  at  last,  "  and 
now " 

"And  now  I  must  leave  you.  Lie  down  and  rest  if 
possible.  It  seems  a  shame  that  you  must  go  to  the 
theatre.  Ah,  if  I  only  had  the  power  to  take  you  away 
from  it  entirely  ?" 

"  I  doubt  if  anyone  will  ever  do  that.  I  will  try  to 
rest  for  to-night.  What  matter  if  hearts  do  ache,  the 
public  must  be  amused." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  which  she  took  in  both  her 
own,  and  kissed  gently  the  reddened  palm,  and  scarred 
fingers. 

Then  there  was  one  long  look  into  each  other's  eyes, 
an  earnest  "  God  bless  you  "  from  his  lips,  and  they 
parted. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

A  wild  sense  of  shame  tingled  through  Merze's  veins 
for  days  afterwards.  She  was  glad  he  was  so  loyal  to  his 
word  as  not  to  come  where  she  was.  How  could  those 
two  ever  meet  among  others  and  talk  common-places 
again  ?  He  was  able  to  attend  to  his  duties  again;  this 
she  learned  through  Guarda,  and  also  that  he  had  been 
to  visit  his  mother. 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  227 

Merze  wondered  much  what  his  mother  could  be  like  ; 
noble  she  must  be,  and  good.  Despite  their  love,  the 
conversations  between  them  had  been  few,  and  she  knew 
nothing  of  his  family.  When  his  hand  was  able  to  write 
he  had  done  so,  telling  her  he  had  been  at  his  home  in 
the  country  for  a  few  days  ;  "  and  despite  the  present, 
I  hope  it  will  sometime  be  your  home,  too,"  he  had  added; 
and  again  he  wrote:  "  I  have  spoken  to  my  mother  of 
you.  She  does  not  see  or  know  much  of  our  world,  but 
I  know  she  would  love  and  understand  you,  and  would 
be  able  to  help  you  much." 

His  letters  showed  so  plainly  that,  though  he  obeyed 
her  and  kept  away,  he  had  not  altered  his  determination 
that  their  lives  should  sometime  be  together;  and  it  was 
hard  to  put  aside  the  sweetness  which  the  knowledge 
brought  her. 

Guarda  felt  painfully  that  some  change  had  come  to 
her  that  had  put  an  end  to  the  old  confidence  between 
them.  In  her  life  was  the  new  element,  of  which  he 
knew  nothing,  that  filled  her  thoughts  to  the  extinction 
of  all  else.  It  was  to  him  the  sadness  that  age  always 
feels  as  the  youth  which  it  has  helped  to  form  grows 
away,  out  of  the  reach  of  old  eyes  forever. 

She  comprehended,  in  part,  the  pathos  in  his  face  as 
he  watched  her  at  times  questioningly.  It  made  her  feel 
false  and  ungrateful.  Yet  she  could  see  no  gain  in  tell- 
ing him.  He  would  sympathize  with,  but  could  not  help 
her.  He  might  quarrel  with  Lawrence,  and  the  latter 
might  revenge  himself  on  her;  in  no  way  that  she  looked 
could  she  see  a  gleam  of  brightness.  The  letters  from 
Drande  and  Crista  were  her  greatest  pleasures. 

Twice  she  had  gone  down  to  Delaware,  on  the  bay,  on 
Sunday,  and  returned  by  Monday  night,  and  with  each 


228  MERZE : 

visit  was  strengthened  her  idea  that  soon  she  must  en- 
deavor to  make  a  home  somewhere,  so  she  and  Crista 
could  be  together  more,  for  the  girl's  character,  so  dif- 
ferent from  her  own,  was  very  charming  to  her.  Out- 
door exercise  had,  in  a  way,  taken  from  her  the  fragility 
so  noticeable  at  first.  She  had  not  the  still  air  of  the 
cloister  clinging  to  her  garments.  Companionship  with 
the  other  girls  had  dispelled  much  of  that,  but  had  not 
detracted  from  the  innate  purity  of  her  thoughts ;  it  had 
rather  broadened  and  strengthened  them  without  loss  to 
their  fine  nobility.  She  had  much  to  tell  of  her  Quak- 
eress friend,  whom  Merze  learned  was  quite  an  old  lady. 
She  willingly  gave  the  required  permission  for  a  visit 
during  the  winter.  It  was  then  October.  Merze  had 
never  yet  enlightened  Crista  as  to  the  nature  of  her 
work.  There  were  so  many  adverse  tides  in  her  life  she 
could  not  risk  another  then.  And  she  could  not  be  sure 
that  the  girl's  mind  was  free  from  the  shackles  with 
which  the  church  has  ever  endeavored  to  bind  its  adher- 
ents— an  intolerance  of  the  stage. 

It  is  the  old  story  of  Cain  and  Abel,  for  those  two 
were  brothers  in  the  days  of  the  Greek  drama,  before 
men  deemed  themselves  too  wise  for  laughter — one  of 
the  greatest  of  God's  gifts. 

The  new  play  had  been  a  decided  success,  and  was 
likely  to  run  through  half  the  season,  at  least,  for  which 
Merze  was  thankful.  Her  mind  was  not  fitted  for  the 
study  requisite  to  a  new  part.  She  played  night  after 
night,  hearing  the  people  praise  her  in  words  that  were 
the  music  her  ambition  had  longed  for.  It  had  been 
her's  but  a  few  short  months,  and  already  the  emptiness 
in  it  sounded  hollow  in  her  ears  ;  one  voice,  one  heart, 
one  hand  were  worth  them  all  ? 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  229 

She  had  seen  his  face,  at  times,  across  the  circle 
of  light,  and  it  ever  inspired  her  to  her  best  work. 
Some  flowers  found  their  way  to  her  hotel — flowers  that 
were  never  thrown  aside,  or  divided  in  the  green-room, 
as  the  others  were. 

He  could  not  help  hearing  her  discussed  among  his 
acquaintances.  They  all  knew  the  incident  of  the  fire, 
and  some  wondered,  as  Guarda  did,  that  there  was  no 
closer  friendship  between  them. 

"  She  might  make  a  sensation  among  outsiders,  if  she 
only  cared  to  humor  the  public  more,"  remarked  North, 
as  a  party  of  them  sat  together  in  the  club-room  after 
the  theatre.  "  With  that  face  and  manner  she  would 
be  lionized  by  society,  if  she  had  a  little  more  business 
tact — if  she  would  only  unbend." 

"  You  mean  if  she  cared  to  seek  notoriety  as  a  pro- 
fessional beauty,  or  something  of  that  sort,"  said  Drande. 
"  An  artist  does  not  require  that."  It  always  annoyed 
him  to  hear  her  spoken  of  among  men. 

"  Don't  they  ?"  queried  North,  cynically.  "  Well,  they 
call  me  one,  but  HO  one  ever  did  until  I  found  a  patron 
wealthy  enough  to  make  me  the  fashion.  My  work  was 
quite  as  good  before,  yet  no  notice  was  taken  of  it.  To 
be  sure,  if  you  are  willing  to  wait  for  future  generations 
to  determine  the  value  of  your  work  and  ring  your 
praises,  well  and  good.  But  if  you  want  success  in  your 
own  age,  you  must  cater  to  it — advertise  your  name  and 
face  in  conjunction  with  a  new  patent  soap  or  mowing- 
machine,  and  your  fortune  is  made." 

"Nonsense'"  replied  Drande,  who  knew  that  the 
man's  love  of  his  art  was  an  absorbing  passion.  "  You 
are  preaching  now  what  you  would  not  practice." 

"Ah!   that  is  because   I   am  one   of   the  fools  who 


230  MERZE  : 

would  have  won  my  success  in  future  ages,  if  left  to  my- 
self. But  a  beautiful  woman  must  win  her  success  while 
her  beauty  lasts,  and  the  one  who  understands  her  age 
is  the  one  whose  name  will  be  oftenest  on  people's  lips. 
Now  Mignot  does  not  understand  it  in  the  least.  I  do 
not  think  she  ever  will.  She  lives  too  much  in  dreamland, 
I  fancy.  There  is  not  enough  of  human  nature  in  her. 
She  is  lovely,  charming,  but  she  is  an  icicle." 

"  I  don't  think  you  know  her  when  you  say  that."  It 
was  an  old  gentleman  of  the  party  who  spoke — a  writer 
whose  verse  is  known  and  loved  over  a  wide  land. 

"  Do  you  know  her  any  better  ?"  inquired  Orlane, 
who  was  also  there.  Drande  looked  up  but  said  noth- 
ing. 

"  I  never  spoke  to  the  lady  in  my  life." 

"  Then  how  " began  North. 

"  I  know  nothing  of  her  personally,"  replied  the  old 
man,  "  and  I  have  only  seen  her  on  the  stage,  and  once 
at  a  rehearsal  I  saw  her  face  when  she  did  not  know  she 
was  observed.  During  the  intervals  when  not  engaged 
in  rehearsing,  I  noticed  she  did  not  chat  as  the  others 
about  her.  No,  but  she  walked  alone  up  and  down,  up 
and  down,  back  of  the  scenes.  Now,  I  have  lived  many 
years  and  noted  many  natures.  That  woman,  calm-eyed, 
stately  as  she  is,  has  somewhere  under  that  colorless 
surface  the  animal  lying  dormant.  I  should  not  care  to 
be  the  person  to  waken  its  wrath,  for  I  am  not  quite 
sure  it  would  be  a  harmless  one.  I  never  saw  anything 
so  quiet  and  yet  so  restless — it  was  a  caged  hyena." 

"What  a  comparison  for  a  lovely  woman  !"  cried  Or- 
lane. "  I  fear  you  will  find  few  to  accept  your  idea  of 
her." 

"  Do  not  mistake  me.     It  is  not  my  idea  of  her  char- 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  231 

acter.  Her  nature  is  not  one-sided.  I  should  imagine 
her  a  woman  with  great  reserve  force  for  either  good 
or  evil.  And  because  you  have  seen  only  the  dreamy, 
ideal  side  of  her  nature,  you  must  not  attribute  to  her 
virtues  a  negative  order.  Hers  is  not  a  soul  that  is 
good  only  through  weakness  of  passions."  And  rising, 
without  more  words,  he  picked  up  his  cane  and  with  a 
quiet  nod  to  the  rest  made  his  way  out. 

"  Eccentric  and  queer  he  is  growing  lately,"  remarked 
North.  "  Human  nature  is  his  hobby,  and  there  is  no 
knowing  where  he  will  ride  on  it  when  once  started.  He 
evidently  likes  Mignot,  but  what  an  original  idea  of  her 
nature !  I  fancy  it  would  surprise  even  herself  if  she 
heard  it." 

Drande  said  nothing  ;  the  old  man's  words  had  made 
a  deep  impression  on  him.  He  knew  that  not  one  in  the 
party  laid  much  weight  on  them,  but  thought  them  the 
outgrowth  of  a  fanciful  imagination,  but  he  himself 
knew  they  held  much  truth.  As  to  the  evil,  he  had  known 
none  of  that,  except  her  own  wild  self-accusation. 
And  now  this  man,  an  earnest  student  of  Nature's  book, 
had  in  part  corroborated  them  by  discovering  in  her 
capabilities  for  work  that  would  not  be  harmless. 

He  wondered  if,  after  all,  his  love  for  her  had  blinded 
him  ;  if  he  had  thought  too  lightly  of  that  mad,  re- 
morseful outburst  that  might  have  had  more  of  a  founda- 
tion than  he  imagined. 

Disloyal  thoughts  they  may  have  been  to  his  love,  but 
not  unnatural,  considering  what  he  remembered,  and 
with  the  echo  of  the  old  man's  words  in  his  ears.  He 
was  not  noticing  the  conversation  about  him  ;  he  was 
too  deeply  buried  in  his  own  thoughts  until  he  was 
aroused  by  hearing  Guarda's  name.  Evidently  the  con- 


MERZE  : 

versation  had  drifted  from  Merze  to  him.  "  Good  old 
Mephisto,"  remarked  one  ;  "  I  wonder  why  he  keeps  him 
around?" 

"  Who  ?"  inquired  Drande,  rousing  himself. 

"  Lawrence,"  replied  North  ;  "  I  heard  someway  he 
was  a  connection  of  Guarda's  ;  did  you  know  it?" 

"  Yes,  I  knew  it.  I  don't  know  just  what  the  relation- 
ship is,  and  ignore  the  subject  with  Guarda.  I  do  not 
think  he  would  care  to  be  talked  about." 

"  I  should  say  not,"  remarked  a  young  man  who  had 
sauntered  over  to  the  party — a  friend  of  North.  "Just 
now,  at  any  rate,  for  the  sake  of  his  prot6g6e." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  Drande,  looking  at  him 
angrily. 

"  Why,  I  mean  the  statuesque  Mignot,  the  vestal  vir- 
gin, otherwise  the  lady  who  was  known  for  a  short  time 
as  Mrs.  Lawrence." 

"  What?''  Orlane  and  Drande  sprang  to  their  feet 
with  the  one  word  on  their  lips.  Some  of  the  others  in 
the  room  looked  up  from  their  conversations  at  the 
anger  in  their  tones.  North  held  out  his  hand  for 
silence. 

"You  are  attracting  attention,"  he  said,  quietly,  "  that 
will  do  her  no  good.  Havlin,  there  must  be  some  ex- 
planation of  this.  The  lady  mentioned  is  held  in  all 
honor  by  myself  and  these  gentlemen.  There  is  some 
mistake  in  the  matter,  and  you  must  clear  it  up." 

"  I  am  sorry,  deuced  sorry "  began  the  young  fel- 
low. 

"  That  is  of  no  use,"  broke  in  Drande,  white  with 
anger,  while  a  dozen  different  memories  flashed  through 
his  brain,  and  made  him  half  sick  with  a  dread  of  he 
knew  not  what. 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  233 

Young  Havlin  looked  across,  half  angered  at  the 
tone. 

"  I  will  tell  what  I  know,"  he  said  coldly.  "  I  do  not 
know  Miss  Mignot,  except  by  sight,  and  would  have  no 
object  in  saying  anything  against  her.  I  saw  her  first 
as  Mrs.  Lawrence  over  two  years  ago,  in  Baltimore. 
That  is  my  home,  you  know/'  he  said,  turning  to  North. 
"  She  stopped  at  the  hotel  for  two  or  three  months  with 
this  gambler,  Lawrence,  her  husband.  They  left  sud- 
denly, and  I  have  never  seen  either  of  them  since, 
until  I  came  up  here  three  days  ago  on  business.  I  had 
heard  of  Mignot,  and  wanted  to  see  her.  At  the  door  of 
the  theatre  I  saw  Lawrence,  and  on  the  stage  I  saw  the 
person  I  had  thought  his  wife.  She  is  now  Merze  Mig- 
not. I  asked  some  acquaintances  why  she  did  not  use 
her  husband's  name,  and  they  informed  me  she  was  not 
married.  That  is  all  I  know  about  it.  There  has  been 
no  mistake.  Her  face  is  not  likely  to  be  mistaken.  I 
would  take  my  oath  it  is  the  same  woman." 

The  three  men  sat  silent  for  a  moment  after  he  had 
finished.  There  was  the  ring  of  honesty  in  his  words 
that  none  could  refute.  North  spoke  first. 

"  It  is  a  bad  business,  Havlin,  and  I  believe  I  can  de- 
pend on  you  to  be  silent  about  it." 

"  Certainly  I  will,"  he  answered.  "  I  wish  I  had  never 
mentioned  it.  I  have  not  done  so  until  now,  only  I 
heard  her  spoken  of  as  Guarda's  protegee,  and  hearing 
you  talk  of  his  relationship  to  Lawrence,  I  spoke  before 
I  thought.  I  am  truly  sorry,  and  I  wish  you  good- 
night." 

None  of  them  made  any  answer.  Each  was  too  busy 
with  his  own  thoughts,  and  for  some  moments  there  was 
silence  ,  then  North  spoke  : 


234  MERZE  : 

"What  do  you  think  of  it ?" 

"  I  think  it  is  a  lie  !"  broke  out  Orlane,  fiercely. 

"The  boy  has  not  lied  intentionally;  I  am  sure  of 
that,"  answered  North.  "  What  do  you  think,  Drande  ?" 

"  I  ?"  And  he  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes  wearily 
— the  hand  scarred  in  her  service — the  hand  she  had 
kissed.  "  I  am  not  sure  that  I  have  any  thoughts  for 
it,  unless  it  be  that  one  should  have  faith  in  nothing, 
It  is  the  only  safeguard  against  deception."  And  rising, 
he  walked  away,  leaving  the  two  men  alone  at  the  table. 

"  How  bitter  he  is,  and  how  quick  to  doubt  her,"  said 
North,  looking  after  the  tall  form  passing  out  through 
the  door  into  the  street.  "  But  then  he  never  liked  her 
much." 

Orlane's  eyes  had  a  curious,  pained  look  in  them. 
The  very  quietness  of  his  friend's  manner  had,  in  a  dim 
way,  brought  a  hint  of  the  truth  to  his  mind. 

"  Yet  he  risked  his  life  for  her.  His  is  a  curious 
character/'  he  replied.  And  in  his  own  mind  was  the 
thought:  "  And  I  fear  he  will  carry  to  his  grave  other 
scars  than  those  on  his  hands." 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

The  morning  broke  clear,  crisp  and  cool.  The  shade 
trees  along  the  old-fashioned  hotel  had  still  a  remnant 
of  fluttering  maroon-tinged  leaves,  and  among  them  the 
birds  chattered  volubly  at  the  first  rays  of  the  sun,  as 
though  they  had  a  wealth  of  June  forests  to  roam 
through — the  birds  of  the  city  are  thankful  for  so  little. 

The  low,  sweet  calls  outside  her  window  awoke  Merze 
hours  earlier  than  usual.  No  one  in  the  house  seemed 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  235 

stirring.  It  was  a  delightful  morning  to  sleep,  and, 
half  vexed  with  herself,  she  endeavored  to  close  her  eyes 
and  drift  again  into  forgetfulness.  But  it  was  of  no 
use  ;  her  eyes  and  brain  were  too  wide  awake.  She  lay 
there  trying  to  think  if  there  was  any  special  work  she 
had  to  do,  but  could  remember  none. 

"  Strange,"  she  thought,  "  I  feel  as  one  does  on  waking 
with  the  knowledge  of  a  journey  to  be  taken — as  if  I 
were  wakened  to  get  ready  for  something." 

How  many  of  us  are  wakened  in  the  same  way, 
as  if  by  the  rustle  of  messengers'  wings  that  tell  us  to 
"get  ready  !" 

Finding  sleep  impossible,  she  rose  and  dressed,  throw- 
ing open  the  curtains  to  let  in  the  flood  of  cheery  light. 
Guarda  had  half  promised  to  call  that  morning  and  take 
her  out  to  breakfast  if  it  was  pleasant. 

"  I  fear  I  can  not  wait,"  she  soliloquized.  "  Massa 
Mark  will  be  sound  asleep  for  two  hours  to  come." 

She  saw  the  postman  enter  the  hotel,  and  rang  for 
the  porter  to  bring  up  the  mail  if  there  was  any  for  her. 
There  was  but  one  letter.  It  was  from  Crista,  from  the 
little  village  in  Maryland  where  she  had  been  for  two 
days  with  her  Quakeress  friend,  Mrs.  Menturn.  She 
found  everything  charming  in  the  sweet  simplicity  of 
this  peculiar,  quiet  people. 

"It  is  all  so  beautiful,  my  sister,"  she  wrote.  "The 
house  has  through  it  the  scent  of  lavender  and  sun-dried 
linen  and  the  peace  of  the  sanctuary.  One  could  not 
imagine  loud,  rude  words  as  sounding  through  its  white 
walls.  There  lives  with  Mrs.  Menturn,  her  sister,  who 
is  also  an  old  lady,  but  who  has  never  been  married.  I 
can  not  but  watch  them  all  the  time,  they  make  such 
charming  pictures  in  their  quaint  costumes.  I  hear 


236  MERZE  : 

much  of  her  son  whom  she  calls  Mortimer  ,  he  seems 
the  one  theme  they  never  tire  talking  of.  lie  is  very 
learned  and  has  traveled  much.  There  is  a  picture  of 
him  in  the  room  where  I  sleep  ;  the  eyes  seem  looking 
at  me  always — beautiful  eyes  like  those  of  the  St.  John 
in  the  chapel  at  the  convent.  I  said  so  to  them,  but  I 
do  not  think  they  care  to  hear  the  saints  spoken  of. 
Why,  I  do  not  know;  because  of  their  religion,  I  sup- 
pose. They  seem  fit  themselves  to  be  classed  among 
the  saints.  It  seems  strange  to  hear  these  two  old  ladies 
calling  each  by  their  girlish  names — '  Betha'  and  ( Prue.' 
The  house  is  close  to  a  brook,  and  back  of  it  are  the 
mountains,  roaming  over  which  they  tell  me  Mortimer 
passed  much  of  his  time  when  at  home.  The  view  of 
them  is  grand  from  my  window.  I  should  think  he 
would  love  them.  His  face  looks  like  that  of  the  people 
for  whom  mountains  were  made,  for  whom  the  sleepy 
peace  of  the  lowlands  would  never  bring  content.  Your 
face,  my  dear  sister,  has  also  seemed  to  me  like  that  at 
times,  a  touch  of  something  that  is  uncommon — such 
as  Judith  of  Bethulia  or  Joan  of  Arc  must  have  had. 
This  letter  will  seem  very  full  of  gossip  and  fancies,  but 
you  see,  my  dear  Mercy,  I  have  nothing  of  my  own  to 
write  about,  only  impressions  of  ihe  new  life  and  faces  I 
meet.  Stella  and  Edie  go  to  school  this  winter,  so  I 
shall  be  more  by  myself  when  I  go  back.  Would  it  be 
convenient  to  let  me  remain  here?  Mrs.  Menturn  has 
said  she  would  be  pleased  if  it  could  be  so.  Of 
course  I  could  make  no  answer  without  asking  you  ;  but 
I  should  like  it  if  you  are  willing.  She  hoped  to-day 
that  I  would  not  be  dull  with  them,  and  said  I  might 
find  them  brighter  by  and  by,  that  they  had  some  worry 
at  present.  The  sister,  Betha,  told  me  of  it  in  part.  It 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  237 

is  something  about  Mr.  Mortimer.  He  is  in  love  with 
some  lady  in  a  world  apart  from  these  little  grey  saints, 
and  it  fills  them  with  alarm  in  some  way.  A  fine  lady  of 
the  world  in  this  white  nest  would  be  like  a  bird  of 
Paradise  in  a  dove-cote.  But  I  must  close.  I  wish  you 
could  be  with  me  this  evening.  This  paper  seems  so 
cold  to  tell  my  thoughts  to  ;  not  like  the  warmth  in  your 
eyes  when  you  listen.  If  they  were  here  now  they 
would  see,  away  beyond  the  village,  the  sunset  showing 
pink  on  the  farthest  mountains,  and  verging  into  purple 
on  those  nearer,  until  the  one  closest  to  us  is  dark  against 
the  cool  clear  sky,  and  right  above  its  darkest  crag  the 
new  moon  lies  like  a  crescent  shining  on  the  turban  of 
some  dark  Turk." 

Merze  finished  reading  the  letter  with  a  feeling  of 
content  for  the  girl's  happiness  that  was  so  apparent  in 
every  line  she  had  written. 

"  My  life  is  at  least  of  use  here,"  she  thought. 

It  was  still  early.  She  sat  down  at  once  and 
answered  the  letter,  expressing  her  pleasure  in  the 
girl's  content,  leaving  her  to  make  her  own  choice  as 
to  the  length  of  her  stay,  and  inclosing  money  for  her 
expenses. 

She  had  just  finished  the  letter,  and  as  she  rose  from 
sealing  it  her  eyes  caught  sight  of  a  form  that  was 
walking  backwards  and  forwards  across  the  narrow  park 
in  view  of  her  window.  One  glance  was  enough  to  tell 
her  who  it  was,  and  she  could  see  him  with  every  turn  in 
the  walk  casting  his  eyes  toward  her  rooms. 

She  sat  down,  trembling  a  little;  she  could  see  he  was 
waiting  or  watching  for  her.  Every  trifle  filled  her  with 
some  new  dread  lately.  She  was  afraid  to  think  what  it 
might  mean  now. 


238  MERZE  : 

"  I  felt  as  if  I  was  to  get  ready  fo*  something,"  she 
thought.  "  Perhaps,  perhaps  it  has  come." 

She  could  not  stand  the  suspense,  the  uncertainty,  but 
drew  back  the  curtains  and  stood  in  the  window.  "  I  can 
see,  at  least,  if  it  is  I  whom  he  wishes  to  see."  She  had 
not  to  wait.  One  moment  his  glance  fell  on  her,  the 
next  he  had  started  toward  her.  She  stood  watching 
him  until  he  disappeared  in  the  door.  He  did  not  raise 
his  eyes  to  her  once  as  he  passed  below.  A  moment  later 
the  clerk  brought  up  his  card. 

"Send  the  gentleman  up,"  she  answered. 

As  she  heard  his  quick  step  outside,  she  opened  the 
door,  not  awaiting  his  knock.  He  walked  in  without  a 
word,  and  closing  the  door  behind  him,  followed  her 
through  the  small  curtained  ante-room  into  the  parlor, 
and  stood  looking  at  her  with  no  smile,  no  light  of  greet- 
ing in  his  face.  She  turned  sick  at  heart  as  she  looked 
at  him. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  half  whispered. 

"What  is  that  man  to  you  ?" 

It  had  come  at  last  !  Everything  seemed  swaying 
about  her,  as  she  met  his  eyes.  He  caught  her  by 
the  arm  as  she  was  about  to  fall,  and  placed  her  in  a 
chair. 

"Sit  there,"  he  said,  with  a  cold  fury  in  his  voice,  "and 
speak  the  truth  for  once,  if  you  have  not  forgotten  how 
through  much  lying." 

She  opened  her  lips  to  speak,  but  no  words  came — 
— only  a  short,  sobbing  breath. 

"  Liar,"  he  muttered  through  his  teeth,  as  he  looked 
at  her,  "  liar  always,  without  words,  with  every  look  in 
your  eyes,  every  tone  of  your  voice,  you  have  learned 
your  trade  well  !" 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  239 

"  Hush,"  she  said  looking  up  at  him.  "  You  must  not 
say  such  words  to  me.  Have,  have  you  forgotten  all, 
the  love,  the  trust  ?" 

"  Dare  you  mention  them  to  me  now  ?"  he  broke  in 
fiercely.  "  The  love  you  used  but  to  practice  your  art 
on,  the  blind  trust  with  which  I  left  you  in  this  room, 
where  you,  no  doubt,  laughed  over  it  to  him  before  an 
hour  had  gone  by  ?  Vampire,  with  your  white,  still  face 
and  heart  of  fire  !" 

"  Hush  !     You  are  killing  me  with  these  words." 

"  Killing  you  ?  Oh  no  ;  women  such  as  you,  are  not 
killed  with  words.  I  ask  but  little.  What  is  that  man 
to  you  ?" 

"  Nothing — now,"  she  answered  low,  fearing  to  tell  the 
truth  even  to  check  his  wrath.  Of  what  use  would  it  be  ? 
He  would  despise  her  none  the  less. 

"  Nothing — now"  he  repeated,  bitterly.  "  O  woman, 
that  can  say  so  at  twenty-two  !  Nothing  now,  though 
you  are  here  together ;  though  he  brings  you  to  the 
house  from  which,  years  ago,  his  other  mistress  was 
taken  to  a  madhouse  !  Oh  !  you  did  not  know  that  ?" 
as  she  looked  up  wildly.  "  I  see  the  knowledge  has 
power  to  move  you,  though  you  can  tell  me  he  is  nothing 
to  you  now." 

"  You  are  wrong  when  you  think  of  me  like  that,"  she 
said  more  steadily,  though  her  face  was  white  at  the 

bitterness  of  his  taunts.  "  He  has  been  my  " she 

seemed  choking  as  she  looked  in  his  face  and  tried  to 
say  the  word,  "  he  is  " 

"  Her  husband  !" 

It  was  Guarda  who  spoke,  parting  the  curtains  of  the 
ante-room.  They  had  not  heard  him  knock,  but  hear- 
ing voices  he  had  opened  the  door  and  could  not  help 


240  MERZE  : 

hearing  the  bitter  words  of  Drande.  He  crossed  to 
where  Merze  sat,  and,  taking  her  hand,  turned  to  the 
other. 

"  Drande,  what  does  this  mean  ?"  his  old  face  puzzled 
at  the  scene. 

"  You  had  better  ask  your  protegee  there,  the  wife  who, 
for  the  tricks  of  her  trade,  will  not  use  her  husband's 
name  ;  there  are  many  such.  But  you,  Guarda,  I  thought 
above  acting  as  a  cloak  in  such  a  scheme  ;  our  long 
friendship  might  have,  at  least,  exempted  me  from  the 
list  you  have  blinded." 

"  Merze,  what  does  it  mean  ?"  the  old  man  asked 
tremulously.  At  the  kindness  of  his  touch  she  had 
clasped  his  hands  in  hers,  bending  her  face  low  over  it 
until  he  could  feel  her  tears.  "  Merze,  try  to  tell  me. 
Why  should  you  be  her  judge  ?  I  do  not  understand." 

"  Do  you  not?"  asked  Drande,  a  bitter  coldness  in  his 
voice  as  he  looked  at  her  bowed  form.  "  I  loved  her. 
Yes,  why  should  I  not  tell  you  ?  She  will.  And  you  will 
know,  when  I  tell  you  as  I  do,  that  it  was  no  trifling  affair 
for  the  pastime  of  a  few  hours.  I  offered  her  my  name. 
Oh,  yes,  she  was  an  honest  wife  in  that  she  sent  me 
away  from  her  ;  but  she  knew  I  would  come  back  !  She 
had  not  in  her  the  honesty,  the  truth  to  say  '  I  am  a  wife  '; 
and  what  other  reason  will  keep  away  a  man  who  loves 
and  who  imagines  himself  loved  ?  I  leave  you  to  further 
conquests,  madame.  Good  morning." 

His  foot  struck  against  some  metallic  thing  as  he 
passed  through  the  outer  room.  He  stooped  and  picked 
it  up.  It  was  a  steel  dagger  with  a  slight,  slim  blade 
and  a  handle  of  brass  in  scroll  work.  He  tossed  it 
aside  on  a  small  stand,  and,  opening  the  door,  passed 
out  and  into  the  street.  He  did  not  look  back  or  see 


THE    STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  241 

the  woman  kneeling  by  the  window  watching  him  with 
wet  eyes,  the  old  man  beside  her. 

"  My  child,  my  child,  you  care  so  much  ?" 

She  did  not  answer.  Her  eyes  watched  the  receding 
form  until  it  vanished,  and  then  she  turned  to  him, 
clasping  his  hands. 

"  You  see,  dear,"  she  said  brokenly,  "  I  am  only  a 
woman.  I  dared  not  place  my  ideal  too  high  for  my 
hands  to  grasp  at  it,  and,  after  all,  they  will  be  forever 
left  empty."  • 

"  And  you  have  borne  this  alone  in  silence  rather  than 
tell  me  ?"  he  said,  leading  her  back  to  a  chair  and  sitting 
beside  her.  "  That  was  not  right." 

"  You  could  not  have  helped  me  ;  no  one  could,"  she 
answered,  wearily,  and  then  she  told  him  of  the  inter- 
views with  Lawrence. 

"  The  coward  !  the  coward  !"  he  said,  as  she  told  him 
her  reason  for  remaining  at  the  hotel. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  with  a  wan,  piteous  smile  on  her 
face,  "  it  would  have  been  of  no  use.  A  god  could  not 
undo  the  past.  It  is  fate,  I  suppose ;  but  oh,  Massa 
Mark,  it  is  such  a  dreary  one  !" 

And  he,  poor  old  "Mephisto"!  could  only  clasp  her 
hands  and  turn  away  his  eyes  not  to  see  the  misery  in 
the  face  he  loved  so  well. 

"There  must  be  an  end  to  this  secrecy  at  once,"  he 
said  decidedly.  "  I  shall  tell  him  this  morning  that  I 
will  keep  my  promise  no  longer,  if  it  is  to  bring  injury 
to  you.  Your  reputation  as  a  woman  must  not  suffer 
through  any  false  ambition  for  you  as  an  actress.  I 
shall  see  that  you  do  not  suffer  in  the  estimation  of  your 
friends  when  it  is  known  you  have  been  his  wife,  and 
they  will  believe  me," 
ie 


242  MERZE  : 

"  But  it  is  too  late  forever  to  clear  me  in  his  eyes.  He 
will  think  only  that  we  have  been  forced  to  it." 

"That  is  yet  to  be  seen  ;  we  owe  him  too  much,  you 
and  I,  to  allow  him  to  continue  in  such  thoughts,  my 
poor  friend,  my  poor  child,  it  is  a  pity,  it  is  a  pity !" 
He  rose  and  picked  up  his  hat. 

"  Where  are  you  going  now  ?"  she  asked. 

"First  I  am  going  to  send  you  up  some  breakfast 
instead  of  taking  you  out  as  I  came  to  do,"  he  answered, 
"and  then  I  am  going  in  to  see  Lawrence."  He  was 
looking  through  his  pockets  as  he  spoke.  "  I  had  a  knife 
for  him,  an  old  dagger  he  had  left  down  at  Wright's  to 
be  fixed.  The  clerk  gave  it  to  me  yesterday.  I  was 
sure  I  had  it.  Look  here,  it  has  cut  a  hole  through  my 
pocket  and  got  lost !" 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  door  with  him,  and  on  the 
stand  she  saw  the  knife  glistening. 

"  Is  this  it,  Massa  Mark  ?"  she  asked,  picking  it  up. 

"  Certainly  it  is,  how  could  it  have  come  there  ?" 

"You  must  have  dropped  it,  and  he,  Mr.  Drande, 
picked  it  up,"  she  answered,  handing  it  to  him,  little 
thinking  under  what  circumstances  she  was  to  see  it 
again. 

She  closed  the  door  and  went  back  into  her  room 
where  she  had  heard  all  his  words  of  love,  all  his  bitter 
scorn.  The  sun  was  still  shining  warmly,  the  birds  were 
chattering  about  the  windows,  but  her  ears  were  deaf  to 
their  music.  She  shivered  and  wondered  if  she  would 
ever  be  warm  again. 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  243 


CHAPTER  xxxm. 

"And  you  are  going  to  leave  us  again,  Drande  ?" 

"Yes,  I  have  about  decided  on  it," 

"  It's  a  shame,"  grumbled  North.  "  What's  the  matter 
with  New  York  ;  isn't  it  good  enough  for  you  ?" 

"  It  would  be  as  much  as  my  life  is  worth  to  say  '  no ' 
to  you,  a  New  Yorker,"  answered  Drande.  "Oh,  no, 
it  is  not  that,  only  I  have  been  knocking  about  in  the 
wilds  so  long  that  I  feel  scarcely  fit  for  civilization.  I 
can  have  my  finger  in  our  political  pudding  in  Mexico, 
if  I  choose  to  go  back,  and  I  think  I  shall." 

"  Orlane  and  I  shall  miss  you  mightily." 

"  Thanks,  old  fellow,  I  believe  you  will.  Here  comes 
Orlane  now." 

He  came  in  with  some  morning  papers  in  his  hand. 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news  of  the  murder  ?"  he  asked. 

"  No,  we  haven't  seen  the  papers,"  said  North. 
"  Where  was  it  ?" 

"At  the  old  Mansion  Hotel.  Fred  Lawrence  was 
found  dead  in  his  bed  this  morning." 

"Great  God!" 

It  was  Drande  from  whose  lips  the  words  fell  with  an 
intensity  that  was  startling  to  his  two  friends.  He 
noticed  their  wonder  and  continued:  "Why,  this  is 
something  terrible.  How  was  it !  Who  did  it  ?" 

"  That  they  can't  tell.  Everything  seems  very  myste- 
rious from  the  papers.  He  was  seen  go  to  his  room 
as  usual.  At  three  o'clock  the  night  clerk  in  passing 
his  door,  noticed  the  gas  burning  brightly,  contrary  to 


244  MERZE  : 

his  habit.  The  clerk  knocked  at  the  door,  receiving  no 
answer.  On  turning  the  door  knob,  the  door  opened, 
and  on  the  bed  was  Lawrence  lying  square  on  his  back, 
with  a  knife  or  dagger  driven  to  the  hilt  in  his  heart." 

"  Why,  this  is  horrible.  Any  one  suspected  ?"  asked 
North. 

Drande  said  no  more.  He  felt  himself  get  cold  all 
over  at  the  thoughts  that  would  persist  in  creeping  into 
his  mind.  A  dagger !  He  had  seen  one  in  her  room 
that  morning. 

"  No  ;  no  one  in  particular,"  said  Orlane,  in  answer  to 
the  last  question.  "  Only  it  is  supposed  to  be  a  woman." 

"  And  why  ?"  Drande  scarcely  knew  his  own  voice, 
and  his  lips  seemed  stiff  as  he  tried  to  move  them. 

"  Well,  some  unknown  woman  inquired  of  a  porter  in 
the  morning  if  he  was  stopping  there.  She  was  told  he 
was,  and  then  she  asked  if  he  still  had  the  room  with 
the  bay  window.  The  man,  thinking  she  was  a 
person  come  to  inquire  about  washing  or  something  of 
that  sort,  told  her  he  had  that  room.  That  ended  the 
conversation,  and  she  went  away.  In  the  evening  some 
strange  woman  was  seen  in  the  upper  hall,  and  may  have 
gained  access  to  his  room  easily,  as  his  door  was  often 
unlocked.  Whoever  it  was,  the  deed  was  very  deliber- 
ately done.  It  is  supposed  to  have  been  done  when  he 
was  sleeping.  There  were  two  blows.  The  one  must 
have  stained  her  hands,  for  there  was  bloody  water  in 
the  basin,  and  some  marks  on  the  towel.  It  was  not  a 
case  of  robbery — a  vendetta,  probably.  People  of  that 
ilk  make  enemies  through  the  ruin  of  lives  they  know 
nothing  of." 

"But  I  don't  think  he  has  been  gambling  lately," 
said  North  ;  "at  least  not  heavily." 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  245 

"  No,  but  things  like  that  keep  a  long  time  with  some 
people  ;  and  it  was  only  night  before  last  that  we  heard 
that  other  piece  of  rather  startling  news  in  which  his 
name  was  mixed." 

"Don't  you  think,"  said  Drande,  trying  to  speak 
carelessly,  "that  it  is  best  to  be  cautious  about  the 
knowledge  the  young  man  gave  us?  When  a  case  of 
this  sort  comes  up  no  one  knows  where  it  will  stop,  and 
it  would  be  very  awkward  if,  through  a  little  carelessness, 
her  name  should  be  connected  with  the  man  now.  The 
public  are  ever  ready  to  grasp  on  any  news  with  which 
the  name  of  an  actress  is  connected.  It  would  be  hard 
on  her." 

"  Certainly,"  replied  North,  "  we  must  say  nothing." 

A  sort  of  chill  fell  over  the  further  conversation  of 
the  three  men  as  they  sat  there  at  the  breakfast  table, 
and  one  by  one  they  rose  and  left  the  dishes  scarcely 
touched. 

At  the  hotel  all  was  excitement.  Detectives  were  at 
work  asking  questions  and  advancing  theories.  People 
stood  around  the  doors  asking  the  latest  developments 
and  discussing  the  affair  with  a  sort  of  morbid  interest; 
while  upstairs  in  one  room  lay  the  cold,  still  form  that 
twenty-four  hours  before  had  been  Fred  Lawrence,  and, 
in  another  room,  with  only  a  few  walls  between,  was  a 
form  as  still,  almost  as  cold,  the  wide  open,  burning 
eyes  seeming  to  contain  all  the  life  that  was  in  her. 

"Dead  without  a  struggle — killed  as  he  slept !" 

Those  were  the  words  of  the  clerk  as  she  had  heard 
them  that  morning.  What  she  replied  she  never  knew, 
but  the  man,  frightened  at  her  face,  advised  that  she  sit 
down  till  he  could  send  one  of  the  maids  to  her. 

"  No  ;  no  one,"  she  managed  to  say  with  a  gesture  of 


246  MERZE  : 

opposition,  "only  Mr.  Guarda — a  relative  of  his — of 
the—" 

And  then  she  could  say  no  more.  She  sat  in  the  chair 
he  proffered,  and  he  left  her  with  wonder  at  the  ashy 
face  that  was  turned  toward  him,  but  with  eyes  that  did 
not  see. 

"  It's  only  natural  she  would  be  frightened  at  a  murder 
in  the  house,"  he  remarked  down-stairs,  "and  specially 
interested  in  this  as  he  belongs  to  the  theatre,  but  heaven 
keep  me  from  telling  such  news  to  a  woman  again.  She 
sat  in  that  chair  as  if  she  were  paralyzed,  and  the  look  in 
her  face — it  was  a  sight  to  haunt  a  man." 

And  so  Guarda  found  her.  She  did  not  turn  her  head. 
He  came  close  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Merze,"  his  voice  had  a  tinge  of  fear  as  he  saw  her 
face.  "  Merze." 

Then  she  spoke,  without  looking  at  him,  slowly  as 
with  lips  that  were  numb. 

"It  has  come.     I  wished  it  and  it  has  come." 

"  Hush,  Merze  !  You  must  not  think  such  things. 
It  is  not  your  fault.  Don't  imagine  your  wishing  it  so 
has  hastened  such  a  horror,  and  I  don't  think  you  ever 
did  really  wish  it,  unless  it  was  in  a  passing  fit  of  despond- 
ency. You  must  rouse  yourself." 

But  she  did  not  answer.  She  only  clasped  her  hands 
tighter  and  sat  there,  dumb  with  the  force  of  the  remorse 
that  overwhelmed  her. 

"  Merze,  my  Merze  !"  and  he  unclasped  the  cold  hands 
and  held  them  between  his  own  thin,  trembling  ones 
with  great  gentleness.  "  Look  at  me,  your  old  Massa 
Mark,  whose  heart  breaks  to  see  your  misery." 

She  looked  at  him  with  wide,  weary  eyes. 

''Misery,"   she  repeated.     "Ah,    Massa   Mark!   it   is 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  247 

only  just  that  it  should  be  so.  I  thought  I  knew  what 
the  word  meant  yesterday.  But  you  were  right  when 
you  said  none  was  equal  to  that  of  remorse." 

"  You  must  not  let  yourself  feel  like  that.  You  must 
think  of  other  things.  There  is  much  to  be  done;  rouse 
yourself  and  help  me.  Anything  will  be  better  than  to 
sit  here  like  this,  as  if  you  were  going  mad." 

"  If  I  were  sure  that  the  mad  forget  I  would  pray 
for  it." 

"But  we  do  not  know  it.  That  is  what  I  want  to 
speak  to  you  of,  that  mad  woman;  do  you  know  where 
she  is?" 

"Yes;  why?" 

"  There  is  a  woman  suspected  of  this  crime." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily.  No  personal  fear  could 
add  in  any  way  to  her  unhappiness. 

"  Is  it  1?"  she  asked,  simply.  Her  own  self-accusing 
spirit  made  it  seem  only  a  thing  to  be  expected. 

"You!"  And  he  stared  at  her  aghast  at  the  thought. 
"You!  Certainly  not." 

"I  did  not  know,"  she  answered.     "Who  is  it,  then?" 

"  No  one  in  particular,  but  I  have  thought  it  might  be 
the  woman  who  went  to  the  mad-house — that  girl's 
mother." 

"Crista's  mother!  Oh,  I  hope  not.  I  hope  not  for 
Crista's  sake."  It  was  the  first  sign  of  animation  she  had 
shown,  and  he  was  thankful,  though  it  was  for  the  girl. 

"It  is  only  a  conjecture  of  my  own.  I  only  thought 
if  she  could  have  escaped  it  might  be  so;  but  we  will 
speak  of  that  later;  there  are  things  concerning  you  to 
speak  of  now." 

"  Me?  Is  there  anything  left  to  say?"  It  seemed  to 
her  that  an  end  of  all  things  had  come. 


248  MERZE : 

"There  is  much.     First  you  must  take  his  name." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  apathetically.     It  did  not  matter. 

"  I  think  it  is  best.  In  an  affair  of  this  sort  so  much 
is  sifted.  They  may  learn  it  anyway,  and  it  is  best  for 
you  to  make  it  public  yourself." 

"As  you  please." 

"  And  another  thing.  If  you  can,  you  would  best 
come  in  there  a  few  moments,  at  least." 

"  To  see — to  see?"  And  then  she  broke  down,  cover- 
ing her  face  with  her  hands  as  if  to  keep  out  some  sight 
of  horror. 

"Yes,  my  child;  try  to  be  brave.  It  will  not  be  long. 
I  know  it  is  much  to  expect  of  you  after  what  you 
endured  yesterday.  No  wonder  you  are  so  unstrung 
and  nervous  to-day.'* 

''Yes,  I  am  very  weak,  very  cowardly  even  lately," 
she  answered.  "  Last  night — you  will  scarcely  recognize 
your  old  Merze  in  this  nervous  creature — but  last  night 
I  feared  to  be  alone,  so  much  so  that  I  had  one  of  the 
maids  bring  a  cot  in  and  sleep  outside  my  bedroom  door. 
She  thought  I  was  not  well,  but  it  was  only  a  nervous 
dread  of  being  alone." 

"  You  have  not  been  so  often?" 

"  Never  but  once  before."  She  did  not  tell  him  when 
it  had  been.  It  was  the  night  after  Drande's  first  visit, 
the  night  when  her  thoughts  were  haunted  by  the  mem- 
ory of  what  her  wishes  had  been  for  one  short,  terrible 
moment  in  her  life. 

A  policeman  stood  at  the  door  of  the  dead  man's 
room. 

"  No  admittance,  sir,  except  to  witnesses  or  members 
of  the  press,"  he  said,  glancing  at  the  lady  on  Guarda's 
arm.  "The  coroner's  there  now." 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  249 

"We  are  relatives,''  Guarda  answered,  and  the  man 
silently  opened  the  door  for  them  to  enter.  The  few 
witnesses  about  the  hotel  had  been  examined,  but  their 
testimony  did  not  amount  to  much  except  as  to  who  saw 
him  last  alive,  who  found  him,  etc. 

A  hush  fell  over  the  party  as  the  white-haired  old 
man  came  in,  leading  the  beautiful  woman,  whom  most 
of  them  had  seen  at  some  time  or  other.  She  wore  a 
crimson  house  dress  of  softly  draped  material  tied  at  the 
waist  and  throat  with  silver  cords,  and  above  it  the  face 
looked  like  chiseled  marble,  just  as  white,  so  colorless 
was  it ;  and  the  eyes,  with  a  world  of  remorse  and 
horror  in  them,  shone  like  stars.  But  for  all  their  wide- 
ness  she  saw  none  of  the  faces  about  her.  There  were 
some  newspaper  people  and  the  jury.  The  coroner, 
knowing  Guarda,  spoke. 

"  We  were  about  to  call  you,  but  the  lady  had  best 
retire;  no  outsiders  allowed  in." 

"The  lady  is  Mrs.  Lawrence,  his  wife,"  answered 
Guarda,  quietly.  The  other  bowed  in  silence  and  stepped 
back,  giving  way  for  them  to  pass  on. 

The  room  was  a  large  one,  divided  in  two  by  heavy 
curtains  that  hid  the  bed.  Down  its  length  they  walked, 
an  odd  couple,  and  all  eyes  turned  curiously  toward  them. 

"Courage,  my  child;  be  brave,"  he  said  as  they  neared 
the  curtain.  His  hand  was  raised  to  push  it  aside,  when 
some  one  on  the  other  side  drew  it  back  quickly,  leaving 
exposed  the  bed  with  its  ghastly  burden.  The  shock 
was  so  sudden  that  Merze  uttered  a  low  scream,  and 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands;  and  a  man,  watching 
her  from  the  window,  thought: 

"  One  would  swear  by  that  surprise  that  she  did  not 
know  the  bed  was  there.  What  an  actress!" 


250  MERZE : 

"  Merze,  my  child,"  admonished  the  old  man. 

"Oh,  Massa  Mark,  I  did  not  think  to  see  him  like 
this!" 

She  was  trembling  convulsively  and  clung  to  his  arm. 
With  a  strong  effort  she  turned  her  eyes  once  more  to 
the  still  face  on  the  bed.  There  was  nothing  to  show 
any  sign  of  pain  or  struggle.  The  bed  clothes  were 
scarcely  disturbed,  and  the  face  was  that  of  a  person 
sleeping.  But  on  the  left  breast  was  a  cut  in  the  white 
linen  of  his  gown,  a  cut  that  was  stained  with  blood,  and 
close  beside  it,  driven  to  the  hilt  in  his  bosom,  was  the 
dagger  that  had  lain  in  her  room  the  day  before! 

"  While  he  slept,"  she  said  lowly,  with  a  sick  feeling 
running  through  her  at  the  thought  of  how  lately  she 
had  held  that  knife  in  her  own  hands,  and  how  lately  she 
had  thought  of — and  she  turned  away  dizzily. 

"  Yes.      While  he  slept!" 

She  raised  her  head  at  the  voice,  and  across  the  bed 
with  its  ghastly  corpse,  she  met  the  eyes  that  had  brought 
to  her  all  knowledge  of  life's  light.  But  in  their  depths, 
as  she  looked,  there  was  only  the  glow  of  a  great  con- 
tempt, a  stern,  silent  accusation  that  struck  cold  to  her 
heart.  His  gaze  was  but  as  the  reflection  of  her  own 
conscience.  Her  head  bent  for  one  instant  before  him, 
as  if  through  weight  of  this  added  burden. 

"  It  is  only  justice,"  her  white  lips  whispered  to  her 
own  soul. 


THE   STORY    OF    Att    ACTRESS. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

The  inquest  was  over,  and  the  verdict  was  "  death  at 
the  hands  of  some  person  or  persons  unknown." 

Some  things  in  the  testimony  had  been  a  revelation  to 
many.  The  actress,  Merze  Mignot,  was  his  wife;  she 
acknowledged  it  herself. 

"Yes,  I  am  his  wife,"  she  had  said,  distinctly,  with  the 
knowledge  of  those  accusing  eyes  on  her.  He  should 
see  that  she  dared  tell  it  now. 

"Since  what  time?" 

"  Over  two  years  ago;  I  could  send  for  the  certifi- 
cate." 

It  was  brought,  and  the  date  determined. 

"You  have  not  borne  your  husband's  name?" 

"  Not  since  entering  the  dramatic  profession.  Mr. 
Lawrence  and  myself  mutually  agreed  to  separate  a 
short  time  after  our  marriage.  It  was  deemed  best  by 
him  that  I  should  use  my  maiden  name  in  my  theatrical 
work — a  custom  common  among  actresses." 

"  Was  the  separation  an  amicable  one?" 

"  Perfectly  so,  as  Mr.  Guarda,  his  cousin  and  my 
friend,  could  testify,  as  he  was  present;  and  it  was 
through  my  husband's  endeavors  that  he,  Mr.  Guarda, 
was  induced  to  take  charge  of  me  and  instruct  me  in 
dramatic  work." 

"Was  this  before  or  after  your  separation?" 

"  It  was  three  weeks  after  we  ceased  to  live  together. 
He  offered  in  all  friendship  to  aid  me  in  some  profession, 
and  I  accepted  his  offer  in  the  same  spirit." 


252  MERZE : 

"  Did  you  recognize  the  dagger  with  which  the  murder 
was  committed?" 

"  Yes ;  I  have  seen  it  many  times.  Mr.  Lawrence 
used  it  often  as  a  paper-knife,  and  was  used  to  keeping 
it  lying  around  carelessly." 

"When  did  you  see  deceased  last  alive?" 

"Last  night,  on  leaving  the  theatre." 

"  Did  you  speak  to  him?" 

"  No  ;  there  was  a  mutual  bow  of  recognition  ;  that 
was  all." 

"  A  lady  was  seen  enter  this  room  last  night  between 
eleven  and  twelve  o'clock;  was  it  you?" 

"  No  ;  I  have  never  entered  the  room  in  my  life  until 
now." 

"  At  what  hour  did  you  retire  last  night?" 

"  I  can  not  tell  exactly,  but  about  twelve  o'clock.  The 
girl  who  slept  in  my  room  might  remember  better." 

"  Who  was  the  girl?" 

"  One  of  the  chambermaids — Mary  she  is  called." 

•'  Does  she  always  sleep  there?" 

"  Only  once  before.  It  was  a  night  when  I  was  not 
well,  and  feared  to  sleep  alone." 

"  How  long  since  was  it?" 

She  named  the  day — it  was  easily  remembered; 
Drande,  hearing  it,  remembered,  too. 

"  And  why  did  the  maid  sleep  there  last  night?" 

"  I  was  not  feeling  well,  and  asked  the  girl,  Mary,  to 
bring  a  cot  and  sleep  there,  which  she  did." 

"  Where  was  the  cot  placed?" 

"In  the  sittingroom,  just  outside  the  bedroom  door." 

"  Did  you  hear  any  unusual  sounds  in  the  night;  any- 
thing  that  could  have  had  a  bearing  on  the  crime?" 

"  Nothing  ;  though  I  was  wakeful  all  night." 


THE    STORY    OF   AN   ACTRESS.  253 

"  Did  you  know  of  any  person's  bearing  any  enmity 
toward  the  deceased?" 

"No  one;  I  have  never  heard  of  anyone's  having  any 
ill-feeling  toward  him." 

That  was  all.  She  was  led  from  the  room  by  Guarda. 
Through  it  all  she  had  been  cold,  distinct,  unconscious, 
apparently,  of  the  curious  eyes  about  her.  One  pair, 
looking  at  her  across  the  dead  body  of  her  husband,  had 
blinded  her  to  all  else;  and  if  her  head  was  a  trifle 
higher,  her  form  a  little  more  erect,  in  turning  from  the 
bed,  it  was  with  the  sense  of  an  emergency  to  be  met  for 
which  she  must  nerve  herself. 

The  girl,  Mary,  was  called  and  questioned,  and  testi- 
fied that  she  had  slept  in  the  room  of  Miss  Merze  the 
night  before.  She  had  locked  the  door  herself,  and 
arranged  her  cot  after  the  lady  had  retired.  It  was 
just  twelve  when  Miss  Merze  turned  out  the  gas  in 
the  bedroom  and  bade  her  good-night.  She  was  sure 
she  heard  the  clock  strike.  It  was  six  when  she  awoke; 
the  lady  was  sleeping,  and  she  dressed  quietly  not  to 
disturb  her.  On  going  down  stairs,  she  heard,  for  the 
first  time,  of  the  murder.  She  had  heard  no  noise  in  the 
night.  She  had  arranged  Mr.  Lawrence's  room  the  day 
before.  She  had  often  seen  the  dagger  on  the  table; 
thought  she  had  noticed  it  there  yesterday.  She  had 
seen  no  lady  enter  the  room;  had  never  seen  Miss 
Merze  do  so,  was  positive. 

The  maid  who  had  seen  the  lady  was  called,  and 
stated : 

"Yes;  it  was  after  eleven  o'clock.  I  was  going  up- 
stairs when  I  saw  a  lady  going  into  Mr.  Lawrence's 
room.  I  did  not  see  her  face  ;  she  was  not  tall,  and  had 
a  shawl  on  her  arm,  and  possibly  a  bonnet  in  her  hand; 


254  MERZE  : 

am  not  sure.  She  was  bare-headed,  and  walked  along 
the  hall  as  if  she  knew  where  she  was  going;  did  not 
knock  at  the  door;  am  certain  ;  just  turned  the  knob 
and  walked  in  as  if  she  was  at  home.  There  was  no 
light  in  the  room,  I  am  sure.  I  do  not  think  Mr. 
Lawrence  had  come  up.  Did  not  think  it  very  unusual, 
as  guests  had  often  obliged  the  landlord  by  changing 
rooms  for  one  night  in  case  of  a  crowded  house,  and  I 
supposed  Mr.  Lawrence  had  given  his  up  to  some  lady." 

Then  Guarda  was  called.  As  to  the  dead  man's  matri- 
monial affairs,  he  corroborated  what  Mrs.  Lawrence 
had  said.  As  to  the  cause  of  the  separation,  he  was 
under  the  impression  that  it  was  partially  an  objection, 
on  her  part,  to  Lawrence's  profession,  but  there  had  been 
no  ill-feeling  regarding  it ;  he  was  certain.  They  had 
befriended  each  other  since  in  many  ways,  and  had 
always  been  on  speaking  terms;  always  courteous  when 
meeting,  though  they  never  sought  each  other's  society. 
Her  stopping  at  the  same  hotel  was  explained  by  the  fire. 
He  was  the  dead  man's  only  near  relative,  to  his  knowl- 
edge. Had  seen  him  last  night  at  the  theatre;  had 
spoken  to  him  there;  had  not  seen  him  after.  He  knew 
the  dagger;  it  was  his  cousin's;  he  had  brought  it  home 
from  being  repaired  the  day  before;  did  not  know  what 
had  been  wrong  with  it;  Wright,  the  jeweler,  could  tell; 
he  had  only  carried  it  home  to  Lawrence  when  requested 
to  do  so;  Lawrence  had  left  it  to  be  repaired  himself; 
did  not  know  of  anyone  with  enmity  toward  him. 

And  that  was  all.  It  was  very  unsatisfactory  to  all, 
for  nothing  gave  them  any  clue  to  the  woman  who 
entered  his  room  with  a  bonnet  and  shawl  in  her  hand. 
She  had  evidently  hidden  away  in  some  other  part  of  the 
house,  and  then  secreted  herself  in  his  room  until  he 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  255 

was  asleep.  If  she  was  acquainted  with  the  house,  as  she 
appeared  to  the  girl  to  be,  it  would  be  an  easy  matter 
for  her  to  get  out  the  back  way  unseen. 

It  was  a  mystery,  a  thing  that  was  food  for  newspaper 
people  and  detectives  for  many  a  day.  Lawrence  was 
not  a  man  with  whom  any  woman's  name  had  been  con- 
nected for  over  ten  years.  Then  his  wife  had  stopped 
there,  so  the  landlord  said  in  his  testimony.  But  the 
lady's  health  was  bad;  brain  trouble.  He  had  taken  her 
away,  and  she  died  soon  after.  So  Mr.  Lawrence  had 
told  him  several  years  later.  It  was  one  of  the  many 
cases  in  the  criminal  calendar  that  seemed  to  defy  all 
efforts  to  unravel.  The  strange  woman  had  disappeared 
as  if  into  the  earth. 

The  name  of  Merze  Mignot,  connected  with  the  mys- 
tery, only  served  to  give  her  more  interest  in  the  eyes  of 
the  public.  It  had  brought  her  in  part  the  notoriety 
which  North  had  advocated.  There  was  something 
strange,  romantic  in  her  life;  such  a  peculiar  friendship 
to  exist  between  herself  and  her  husband,  whom  no  one 
would  have  guessed  was  her  husband.  Everyone  remem- 
bered thinking  there  was  some  reason  for  that  strange 
reserve  of  hers.  She  had  had  no  confidant  of  her  own 
sex  to  whom  a  word  had  ever  been  whispered;  in  fact, 
she  had  never  seemed  to  care  for  lady  friends  beyond 
the  civilities  of  passing  acquaintanceship  with  them. 
That  in  itself  was  enough  to  sharpen  many  a  busy 
tongue  as  her  name  was  discussed.  But  try  as  they 
would,  they  could  say  nothing  really  against  her.  The 
fact  of  Mary's  sleeping  at  her  door  that  night  was  all 
that  saved  her  from  suspicions — that  and  the  strange 
woman;  and  in  her  own  heart  she  knew  that  even  these 
did  not  clear  her  in  the  eyes  of  that  one  man.  Neither 


256  MERZE  : 

Guarda  nor  herself  noticed  that  she  had  not  been  asked 
when  she  saw  that  dagger  last.  She  had  omitted  telling 
or  mentioning  its  presence  in  her  room;  she  had  not 
thought  of  it,  but  he,  listening,  had  noticed  the  omission, 
and,  in  the  face  of  what  he  knew,  it  was  hard  to  believe 
that  it  was  unintentional.  H£  knew  Guarda's  love  for 
her,  and  only  thought:  "He  is  her  dupe;  he  would  do 
anything  if  it  were  to  shield  her.  What  man  would  not, 
if  she  but  smiled  on  him  and  asked  him?  Even  I,  fool 
that  I  am,  find  her  face  haunting  every  hour  of  my  life 
still." 

Only  to  each  other  had  Merze  and  Guarda  mentioned 
the  only  woman  they  could  have  suspected,  and  that  first 
day  she  had  said: 

"  I  do  not  wish  anyone  else  to  be  wronged,  but  so 
long  as  no  one  is  suspected,  of  what  use  would  it  be  to 
offer  our  theory?  It  would  only  bring  trouble  to  Crista, 
perhaps.  We  will  investigate  ourselves  first  and  then 
decide." 

"  Do  you  know  where  she  is?" 

"Yes;  he  gave  me  all  the  papers  that  he  possessed 
concerning  both  Crista  and  her  mother.  Do  you  know, 
Massa  Mark,"  she  said,  meditatively,  "  I  think  he  had  a 
sort  of  presentiment  of  something  like  this,  else  why 
should  he  have  given  these  to  me  together  with  Crista's 
certificate  of  birth?  He  asked  me  to  take  them  all. 
There  are  the  receipted  bills  of  years.  The  last  one  was 
made  out  four  months  ago  for  six  months  in  advance; 
here  it  is." 

Guarda  took  the  bit  of  paper  and  read  a  receipt  from 
Dr.  E.  G.  Etkens,  of  Hazelwood,  N.  Y.,  to  Mr.  Frederic 
Lawrence,  for  total  expenses  of  Mrs.  Effie  Loring,  up  to 
date  of  January  i,  18 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  257 

He  read  it  over  carefully.  "  So!"  he  said,  at  last,  "  he 
has  her  there  under  her  own  name.  Well,  that  is  best; 
but  I  thought  she  was  known  as  Mrs.  Lawrence.  Write 
at  once  and  make  inquiries  about  her.  If  she  is  there, 
all  right;  I  shall  be  as  much  at  sea  as  the  rest." 

She  wrote  the  letter,  and  also  one  to  Crista,  telling  the 
girl  to  address  her  in  future  as  Mrs.  Lawrence,  that  she 
was  married.  "  I  will  write  more  particulars  in  another 
letter,"  she  added;  "  I  have  much  trouble  at  present,  but 
am  sure  you  will  be  patient  until  I  have  time  to  write  or 
to  see  you.  I  am  your  sole  guardian  now,  and  shall 
hope  to  make  your  life  a  pleasant  one.  Write  me  often, 
and  if  you  can,  pray  for  me,  your  sister." 

She  was  thankful  that  she  had  the  girl  to  think  of.  It 
was  the  only  thought  that  seemed  to  rouse  her  from  the 
depths  of  her  own  accusing  conscience. 

"  I  can  at  least  do  what  I  can  of  the  things  he  would 
wish  done  for  her,  if  that  will  be  any  atonement,"  but 
she  felt  that  nothing  could  ever  be  that. 

She  did  not  go  to  the  funeral.  "  Don't  ask  me  to  do 
that,  Massa  Mark,"  she  said.  "  I  have  tried  to  be  strong 
through  so  much,  but  that,  that  I  could  not  stand.  I  am 
not  sure  enough  of  myself,  and  if  I  should  break  down 
now,  I  do  not  know  where  it  would  end.  Let  me  be 
while  I  am  still  sane.  I  can  stand  no  more." 

And  though  the  words  were  spoken  calmly,  he  felt 
that  she  was  speaking  the  truth.  If  she  had  only  been 
a  little  less  calm,  he  would  have  felt  less  fear  for  her. 
Since  the  morning  of  the  murder,  she  had  seemed  like 
an  automaton.  After  that  one  shriek,  when  the  curtain 
was  drawn  aside,  she  had  shown  no  agitation  over  any- 
thing. When  advised  by  Guarda  to  change  her  hotel, 
she  answered  quietly  that  she  was  content  where  she 

17 


258  MERZE : 

was,  and  no  arguments  had  succeeded  in  changing  her. 
The  friends  and  acquaintances  with  offered  sympathies 
found  it  hard  to  express  them  to  the  woman  with  somber 
eyes  that  never  softened,  and  who  thanked  them  with 
cold  lips  that  held  no  tremor  in  them.  She  was  always 
gracious,  in  a  still,  cold  way,  that  had  little  of  humanity 
in  it. 

All  business  details  Guarda  found  her  ready  at  all 
times  to  attend  to.  Since  that  first  night,  she  had  never 
missed  one  at  the  theatre,  and  then  she  told  Guarda  to 
put  on  one  of  the  other  ladies  in  her  stead. 

"  No,  I  am  not  ill,"  she  had  said,  clearly,  distinctly, 
when  he  offered  to  remain  or  to  send  someone  to  her. 
"  I  thank  you,  but  I  am  quite  well.  I  am  not  at  all 
nervous,  only  I  know  how  much  I  can  stand  better  than 
any  physician  could  tell  me,  and  to-night  I  know  that  I 
must  be  alone.  Don't  be  afraid,  dear,"  she  added,  with 
a  kindly  glance  at  the  troubled  old  face.  "  I  shall  be  all 
right.  I  shall  live,  if  that  is  what  you  are  thinking  of. 
Come  in  the  morning.  I  shall  be  more  able  to  talk  then. 
To-night  I  must  be  alone." 

And  in  the  morning  he  found  her  calm  and  collected, 
as  she  had  been  ever  since.  He  told  her  that  Drande 
had  left  the  city  without  even  coming  to  bid  him  a  good- 
by.  He  was  sorry.  He  had  hoped  to  see  him  and  clear 
her  in  his  eyes  of  intentional  deception.  But  he  had  left 
no  address  with  his  friends,  and  no  one  seemed  to  know 
where  he  had  gone. 

She  listened  and  shook  her  head.  "  Never  mind, 
Massa  Mark.  If  you  do  see  him,  I  would  prefer  that 
you  would  not  mention  my  name.  It  will  do  no  good. 
That  is  of  the  past;  let  it  go." 

"  The  letter  from  Dr.  Etkens  came  when  Guarda  was 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  259 

with  her.     She  glanced  at  it  and  handed  it  to  him  with- 
out a  word.     It  read: 

"  MRS.  FRED.  LAWRENCE:  I  should  have  written  your 
husband  three  days  ago,  but  had  not  his  address.  The 
patient  you  inquire  for,  Mrs.  Loring,  died  this  morning. 
The  morning  of  November  4th  she  in  some  way  escaped 
the  vigilance  of  the  keepers,  and  was  not  found  until  the 
sixth.  She  had  evidently  been  wandering  out  through  the 
country,  and  was  returning  at  night  over  a  foot-bridge 
that  crosses  a  ravine  near  the  village.  She  must  have 
missed  her  footing  and  fallen,  for  she  was  found  early 
yesterday  fatally  injured.  She  could  give  no  account  of 
her  wanderings,  and  seemed  sane  at  the  last.  A  ring 
which  she  has  always  worn  was  missing  from  her  finger. 
I  learn  that  she  sold  it  to  a  jeweler  in  the  village,  who 
never  doubted  her  sanity.  What  she  did  with  the  money 
I  do  not  know.  Any  investigation  of  the  affair  which 
yourself  or  her  friends  desire  to  make  will  be  welcome. 
I  await  your  arrival,  or  orders  as  to  disposition  of  body. 
"  Yours  truly, 

"E.  G.  ETKENS." 

Guarda  read  the  letter  in  silence,  and,  dropping  it, 
nodded  his  head  slowly  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"  The  morning  of  the  4th,  and  it  was  that  night  he 
was  found  dead." 

"  But  how  could  she  get  here  ;  how  could  she  know 
where  to  find  him  ?"  asked  Merze. 

"  The  little  village  is  at  the  junction  of  several  roads. 
She  had  money  ;  was  of  sane  appearance.  It  is  easy  to 
get  a  train  from  there  to  New  York  any  hour  of  the  day. 
As  to  knowing  he  was  here,  it  was  from  this  house  he 
took  her  there.  It  was  only  natural,  if  she  had  any 
ideas  of  revenge  against  him,  that  she  should  come  here 


260  MERZE  : 

first.  She  learned  that  he  was  stopping  here.  After 
hiding  through  the  day,  she  walked  into  his  room  at  night, 
like  a  person  at  home  ;  why  not  ?  That  room  had  been 
her  home  last  outside  of  the  asylum.  As  to  her  escaping 
unseen,  that  is  something  I  can  not  explain,  but  she  must 
have  been  very  cunning,  but  the  case  is  not  unprece- 
dented, and  to  me  it  solves  the  secret  of  the  murder." 

"And  it  is  Crista's  mother,"  said  Merze,  slowly.  "She 
thought  her  dead  years  ago.  She  knows  nothing  of  her 
disgrace,  but  if  this  is  ever  discovered,  she  may  be 
dragged  into  a  knowledge  of  all  the  terrible  truth. 
Ah,  Massa  Mark,  that  must  not  be  !  Of  what  use  is  it 
to  anyone  ?  They  are  both  dead  ;  let  the  whole  affair 
die  with  them.  It  is  not  as  if  it  were  doing  a  wrong  to 
anyone.  No  person  is  accused.  Why  need  we  tell 
what  we  only  suspect  ?" 

"  It  may  save  trouble  in  the  future,  Merze." 

"  How  can  it  ?  If  you  choose  you  can  yourself  collect 
any  evidence  against  her  that  can  be  secured  quietly, 
and,  if  it  is  ever  needed,  bring  it  forward.  It  is  not 
needed  now.  Let  it  rest  as  it  is,  for — Crista's  sake." 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  lovingly. 

"For  Crista's  sake,"  he  repeated.  "  Merze,  do  you 
never  in  this  world  intend  to  do  aught  for  your  own 
sake  ?" 

She  rose  and  walked  over  to  him,  taking  his  hand  in 
hers  and  kneeling  beside  him  as  of  old. 

"  Massa  Mark,"  she  said,  quietly,  "  let  things  be  my 
way  now.  I  have  wished,  for  my  own  sake,  thoughts 
you  do  not  dream  of.  Their  fulfillment  has  brought  a 
terrible  retribution.  Let  me  do  what  I  can  to  make 
amends.  Let  me  help  to  keep  at  least  one  soul  in  the 
happiness  of  innocence." 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  261 

"  Ignorance  you  mean." 

"  Ah,  well,  perhaps.  So  long  as  it  is  happiness,  what 
does  it  matter  ?  I  should  be  thankful  for  either.  But 
they  are  gone  out  of  the  reach  of  my  hands  forever." 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

"And  thee  is  content  in  this  quiet  place  with  us, 
Crista  ?" 

It  was  a  soft,  sweet-toned  voice  that  spoke,  a  voice 
that  suited  well  the  character  the  girl  had  described  to 
Merze. 

"  I  am  very  happy,"  laying  down  the  book  from  which 
she  had  been  reading  aloud,  and  looking  lovingly  at  the 
soft-voiced  little  lady.  "I  know  of  nothing  that  would 
make  me  more  so  unless  it  would  be  to  see  my  sister 
Mercy." 

"  The  time  seems  so  long  when  you  are  apart?" 

"I  have  been  with  her  so  little  that  I  feel  as  if  I 
scarcely  know  her,  but  now  that  she  is  married  it  may  be 
different;  every  letter  I  hope  will  bring  news  that  she 
will  come  soon.  It  is  more  than  two  months  since  I  saw 
her." 

"  Well,  well,  perhaps  the  next  mail  will  bring  the  news 
thee  wishes.  It  is  now  the  mail  carrier's  hour.  Would 
thee  care  to  go  thyself  to  the  village  for  it,  or  shall  I 
send  with  Friend  Listen  as  he  passes?" 

"  No,  no,  said  the  girl,  rising  eagerly,  "  let  me  go;  the 
day  is  so  lovely  I  shall  like  the  walk." 

"  And  I  fear  thee  has  tired  thyself  with  the  faithful 
morning's  reading  thee  has  done,"  said  another  voice 


262  MERZE  : 

that  of  Betha,  who  was  knitting  quietly  in  the  corner,  a 
little  dove-colored  duplicate  of  her  widowed  sister. 

"  Indeed  I  have  not,  Mistress  Betha,"  said  the  girl, 
gaily.  "  It  was  a  pleasure  to  read  to  you  both;  it  always 
is,  and  when  I  return  I  shall  finish  it." 

And  so  saying  she  donned  a  jacket,  a  woolen  cap  and 
mittens,  and  started  for  the  walk  to  the  village,  a  half 
mile  away. 

The  eyes  of  the  two  little  ladies  in  white  kerchiefs  and 
aprons  looked  after  her  fondly. 

"  She  is  a  great  comfort,  Betha." 

"  A  great  comfort,  Prue." 

"We  shall  miss  her  much  when  she  goes  from  us." 

"Very  much,  Prue." 

Mistress  Betha's  conversations  were  usually  an  echo  of 
her  sister's,  to  whom  she  deferred  in  all  things,  Prue 
being  two  years  the  senior,  and  both  were  over  sixty. 

"She  has  been  with  us  six  weeks,"  resumed  Mrs. 
Menturn;  "  I  wonder  much  that  she  is  left  so  to  herself." 

"So  do  I,  Prue." 

"But  her  sister,  though  fond,  is  of  the  world,  worldly; 
that  accounts  for  much,"  added  the  little  lady,  to  whom 
the  world,  outside  their  little  homestead  and  its  sur- 
rounding hills,  was  a  whirlpool  in  whose  dizzy  evolutions 
there  was  time  for  no  rest,  peace  or  memory. 

"Yes;  that  accounts  for  much,  Prue." 

"  For  a  man  it  may  be  well  in  a  way,  but  for  a  woman! 
I  hope,  Betha,  this  young  creature  may  never  have  to 
enter  it." 

"I  would  pray  for  it  too,  Prue." 

"Even  the  convent  would  be  better." 

"  Much  better." 

"If  we  could  only  hope  to  keep  her  here,  Betha." 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  263 

"Ah,  if  we  only   could,  Prue." 

"  It  is  strange  we  have  had  no  letter  from  Mortimer 
lately." 

"  Very  strange,  Prue." 

"I  fear  he  was  unhappy  when  he  wrote  last;  his  letter 
was  so  very  short,  and  he  could  not  tell  me  in  it  where  he 
was  going.  I  fear  much,  Betha,  that  it  concerns  the  lady 
of  whom  he  spoke  when  at  home,  whom  he  hoped  some 
time  to  bring  to  us." 

"  Very  likely,  Prue." 

"  She  seemed  to  be  very  much  to  him,  though  there 
was  some  obstacle  at  the  time  to  their  marriage.  He 
was  very  much  in  earnest,  the  same  nature  as  his  father. 
You  remember,  Betha?" 

"I  remember  very  well,  Prue." 

"Yes;  the  same  earnest  nature,  only  he  is  older  than 
his  father  was  when " 

And  then  the  soft  voice  died  away,  and  the  soft  brown 
eyes  gazed  out  across  the  meadows  where  the  snow 
lay  in  white  patches,  across  the  fields  where  she  and 
the  husband  of  her  youth  had  walked  hand  in  hand 
through  many  a  gloaming,  and  a  silence  fell  over  the 
two  broken  only  by  the  click,  click  of  Betha's  steel 
needles. 

Down  along  the  country  lane  walked  Crista,  glad  to  be 
out  in  the  cool  air  that  brought  a  pink  tinge  to  the 
smooth  oval  cheeks.  Happy  she  was  as  she  could  ever 
be  out  of  reach  of  her  church;  there  was  none  in  the 
village  of  her  faith,  and  this  was  the  only  drawback  to 
her  content,  this  and  her  separation  from  "Mercy,"  as 
she  always  called  her.  She  had  said  but  little  of  her 
sister's  interest  in  her  to  her  new-found  friends;  she  was 
very  loyal,  and  understood  without  words  that  as  Merze 


264  MERZE : 

had  told  her  but  little,  it  must  be  because  there  was  some 
good  reason  for  not  confiding  her  affairs  to  her.  In  one 
or  two  letters  she  had  spoken  as  if  in  the  spring  they 
were  to  have  a  home  somewhere  together;  for  her  to  be 
patient  until  she  could  tell  her  more.  And  Crista  had 
asked  no  questions,  and  to  Mrs.  Menturn  had  only  said: 
"My  sister  is  married;  she  is  Mrs.  Lawrence  now,"  and 
that  was  all.  And  from  her  two  old  friends  no  queries 
came.  Her  sister  they  supposed  was  a  fashionable  lady 
who  had  not  time  for  the  care  of  a  young  girl;  that  was 
all  they  thought,  and  Crista's  own  pure  nature  needed 
no  words  of  recommendation  or  weight  of  family  name 
to  make  her  loved  by  them. 

So  she  had  lived  content,  knowing  nothing  of  the 
storms  in  the  heart  and  life  of  the  sister  whose  name  was 
always  first  in  her  prayers.  And,  walking  down  the  vil- 
lage street,  she  wished  earnestly  that  there  would  be  a 
letter  from  her.  There  was,  and  at  a  glance  she  hurried 
out  to  gain  the  road  and  read  it  on  her  way  home. 
Turning  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  opening  the  letter 
as  she  went,  she  walked  almost  into  the  arms  of  a  tall 
gentleman  coming  from  the  opposite  direction.  There 
was  a  moment  of  flushed  embarrassment  on  her  part,  an 
earnest  "  pardon  me"  on  his,  and  as  he  stepped  aside  she 
glanced  at  him,  and  then  stood  still,  forgetting  to  go  on, 
forgetting  where  she  was  for  one  moment  as  she  looked 
into  his  eyes.  And  then  his  curious,  searching  glance 
recalled  her,  and  she  felt  herself  grow  warmer  all  over 

as  she  murmured,  "  I  did  not  mean — I  beg  your  pardon — 
j »> 

And  then  she  passed  swiftly  on,  tingling  with  a  feeling 
of  shame  for  the  seeming  rudeness.  His  eyes  had 
seemed  so  familiar,  yet  she  could  not  recall  where  she 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  265 

had  ever  met  him.     For  one  moment  she  had   felt  like 
holding  out  her  hand  as  to  an  acquaintance. 

And  he  stood  looking  after  her  with  a  little  amused 
smile  on  his  face.  "  A  strange  adventure,"  he  thought. 
"  If  any  eyes  ever  showed  recognition,  hers  did,  yet  I 
am  certain  I  have  never  seen  that  perfect  face  before. 
It  is  not  one  to  forget  easily,  a  face  for  Iphigenia  or 
Elaine,  with  all  its  childish  purity  untarnished." 

But  close  between  himself  and  the  fair  face  he  had 
passed  came  another,  the  face  of  a  woman  with  hair  of 
a  bronze  glint  and  eyes  somber,  wide  and  tearless — eyes 
that,  despite  his  judgment  of  her,  haunted  every  hour  of 
his  life. 

Crista  walked  on,  wondering  a  little  who  the  gentle- 
man could  be;  no  one  she  knew,  she  was  certain  of  that, 
for  she  had  never  known  one  except  Mr.  Lawrence  in  her 
life.  But  she  soon  forgot  him  in  reading  the  letter  she 
had  received,  which  she  did,  walking  slowly  along  the 
country  lane,  not  noticing  that  the  subject  of  her  specu- 
lations had  followed  her  part  of  the  way  and  then  crossed 
into  a  field.  But  he  could  see  her,  and  thought,  "Ah! 
that  explains  her  blindness — a  love  letter,  and  her  haste  to 
read  it  caused  in  part  that  very  becoming  blush." 

But  it  was  not  a  love  letter,  and  it  was  a  little  disap- 
pointment to  the  girl  who  read  it. 

"Mv  DEAREST  CRISTA:  I  fear  you  will  think  I  keep 
my  promises  badly  in  not  coming  to  see  you,  but  we  must 
content  ourselves  with  letters  a  little  longer.  I  leave  New 
York  to-morrow  for  Chicago,  and  shall  not  be  able  to 
return  for  several  weeks,  as  I  shall  be  traveling  part  of 
the  time,  I  send  you  an  address  in  New  York  to  which 
you  can  always  write,  and  the  letters  will  be  forwarded 
to  me. 


266  MERZE  : 

"  My  dear,  I  feel  that  there  are  many  things  over  which 
you  must  be  puzzled,  and  which  I  can  not  tell  you  by 
letter;  but  when  I  come  back  I  hope  to  be  able  to  set 
your  mind  at  rest  in  many  ways.  Believe  me  always 
when  I  say  that  my  first  thoughts  are  for  your  happiness. 
Write  me  often,  tell  me  of  your  life  and  your  friends. 
Nothing  you  write  can  be  without  interest  to  me.  My 
letters  to  you  can  never  be  interesting,  for  you  know  so 
little  of  my  life  and  work;  but  they  will  always  bear  my 
dearest  love  to  you  from  your  sister. 

"  MERCY." 

The  slow  tears  crept  to  her  eyes  as  she  read.  She  had 
not  realized  how  great  her  hope  had  been  until  the  letter 
destroyed  it.  And  now  it  would  be  weeks  before  she 
could  hope  to  see  her.  It  was  very  hard,  a  great  disap- 
pointment. Small  wonder  the  tears  filled  her  eyes  and 
blurred  all  the  winter  landscape  in  a  white  mist. 

Away  in  the  West,  in  the  fair  city  by  the  lake,  a  woman, 
careless  of  the  fatigue  of  the  journey,  careless  of  all 
about  her,  sat  with  hands  clasped  back  of  her  head,  and 
with  eyes  wide,  dry  and  desolate,  gazed  out  unseeing  over 
the  heads  of  passing  crowds  beneath  her  window. 

"  It  I  could  only  be  once  more  as  other  women  are," 
she  thought;  "  women  whose  tears  are  not  burned  out  by 
the  sense  of  their  own  guilt.  Those  who  can  weep 
should  be  thankful,  but  I — I  feel  that  from  me  the  boon 
will  always  be  withheld. 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  267 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

As  Crista  stepped  on  the  long  white  porch  the  mur- 
mur of  voices  met  her  ears — a  man's  voice,  deep  and 
mellow,  and  Prue  and  Betha,  unusual  as  it  seemed,  were 
both  talking  at  once.  She  opened  the  door,  wondering 
much  at  the  evident  flutter  in  Betha's  manner  as  she  met 
her. 

"  There  is  a  joyful  surprise  given  to  us,  and  thee  will,  I 
know,  have  a  share  in  our  pleasure  when  I  tell  thee  our 
boy,  our  Mortimer,  has  come  home." 

"I  am  indeed  pleased  to  hear  it,"  answered  the  girl, 
earnestly,  and  then  she  turned  half  shyly  and  asked, 
"Am  I  presentable,  Betha,  and  are  my  eyes  red?  Yes,  I 
was  crying,  just  a  little.  I  was  so  very  much  disap- 
pointed. My  letter  came,  but  my  sister  can  not  come, 
not  for  many  weeks,  and  I  was  so  silly  as  to  cry." 

"  Dear,  loving  heart,"  and  Betha's  kindly  hand  patted 
her  cheek.  "  I  have  no  light  that  tells  me  how  kindred 
can  wander  away  from  thee.  But  always  here  in  our 
home  thee  will  be  a  welcome  guest." 

She  took  the  girl  by  the  hand  and  led  her  into  the 
room  where  mother  and  son  sat  with  clasped  hands,  and 
tears  of  joy  shone  in  the  little  lady's  brown  eyes.  She 
rose  and  came  forward  as  the  girl  entered. 

"  Mortimer  " — how  the  soft  voice  lingered  on  the  sylla- 
bles !  "  My  son,  this  is  my  friend,  Crista  Loring." 

He  rose  and  held  his  hand  out  to  her,  and  as  she 
raised  her  eyes  she  met  again  those  of  the  gentleman 


268  MERZE  : 

on  the  street  corner.  She  saw  at  once  where  the  likeness 
lay.  It  was  the  face  she  had  gazed  at  on  the  wall  of  her 
room  every  day  since  she  had  been  there. 

"  Oh,  it  is  your  she  said,  flushing  a  little  under  his 
surprised  glance. 

"  I  am  very  happy  to  say  it  is,"  he  answered,  amused 
at  her  greeting.  "  Had  I  known  you  were  the  '  friend 
Crista '  of  my  mother's  letters,  I  should  have  waited  and 
walked  home  with  you.' 

The  two  old  ladies  looked  puzzled. 

"Why,  Mortimer,"  said  his  mother,  "did  thee  meet 
with  Crista  in  the  village?" 

He  was  about  to  answer,  the  smile  still  in  his  eyes  at 
the  remembrance,  when  Crista  spoke  instead: 

"Yes,  friend  Prue"  (of  late  she  had,  with  their  wish, 
fallen  into  their  habit  of  addressing  each  other).  "  Yes, 
we  did  meet,  and  I  was  so  clumsy,  with  my  letter  in  my 
hand,  I  forgot  all  else,  and  did  not  notice  where  I  was 
going,  and  I — I  nearly  fell  over  Mr.  Mortimer,  and  then 
to  make  it  worse  I  stood  there  stupidly  and  stared  at 
him.  You  know  the  picture  in  my  room?  Well,  it  was 
so  like  his  face  that  I  felt  it  must  be  someone  I  had 
known.  I  felt  for  one  moment  as  if  I  should  put  out  my 
hand  and  speak;  and  then  I  felt  so  confused  I  scarcely 
remember  what  I  said,  and  I  know  he  thought  me  very 
stupid." 

"  Did  I?"  and  he  glanced  laughingly  at  his  mother  and 
Betha.  The  girl  seemed  so  anxious  to  give  her  excuse 
for  staring  at  a  stranger,  and  she  was  so  lovely  a  picture 
with  her  yellow  hair  a  little  tossed  by  the  wind,  and  her 
cheeks  aflame,  standing  there  as  if  before  her  judge. 
"  Did  I?  I  did  not  remember  having  thought  so.  I  felt 
much  honored,  I  assure  you." 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  2G9 

But  the  quizzical  smile  confused  her,  and  she  said  no 
more,  but  sat  close  to  Betha,  whose  knitting-needles  were 
again  clicking  in  the  corner  by  the  open  fire-place.  The 
manufacture  of  gray  woolen  socks  was  to  her  as  the  web 
of  fate;  sorrow  and  joy  might  chase  each  other  over  the 
lives  about  her,  but  they  never  checked  Betha's  knitting 
long  at  a  time. 

Surely  the  scene  about  the  hearthstone  was  a  restful 
one  to  the  world-weary  man  who  sat  there.  The  furnishing 
of  the  room  was  simple,  but  very  comfortable,  the  occu- 
pants allowing  themselves  many  of  the  little  luxuries 
unusual  among  professed  Friends.  They  had  worldly 
goods  in  abundance;  they  could  well  afford  them,  and 
neither  Betha  nor  Prue  was  so  strict  as  many  of  their 
sect.  Mortimer's  father  had  been  of  the  worjd,  and 
dying  left  his  son  both  his  wealth  and  tastes.  And 
though  there  had  been  a  marriage  later  with  Menturn,  it 
had  never  altogether  eradicated  from  Prue's  mind  the 
effects  of  the  luxuries  with  which  her  young  husband  had 
tried  to  surround  her.  And  though  her  life  could  be 
content  only  within  sight  of  their  own  meeting-house, 
and  though  all  the  wealth  could  not  have  weaned  her 
away  from  the  white  farm-house  out  into  the  world,  yet 
she  had  not  the  narrowed  prejudices  that  so  often 
belong  to  their  kind,  and  through  her  son  many  rare  and 
curious  aids  to  comfort  and  pleasure  found  their  way 
into  the  Quaker  household — many  that  were  held  as  an 
abomination  before  the  Lord,  and  akin  to  the  workings 
of  Satan,  to  the  little  village  that,  with  a  few  exceptions, 
was  bound  under  the  rules  of  the  Friends,  whose  tradi- 
tions condemned  all  arts  that  were  alone  for  beauty 
or  ease. 

Over  the  floor,  that  was  of  narrow  strips  of  dark  and 


270  MERZE  : 

light  wood  alternating,  were  laid  large  rugs  of  oriental  ap- 
pearance, whose  bright  colors  had  been  woven  in  by  black- 
eyed  women  and  children  on  the  shores  of  the  Mexic  Gulf. 
Some  easy  chairs  of  dark  wood  were  scattered  about,  and 
over  a  straight-backed  "settee"  were  thrown  a  couple  of 
fur  robes  that  softened  its  grimness  and  made  it  quite 
inviting;  curtains  of  home-made  linen  were  at  the  quaint, 
deep  windows,  and  through  them  the  sun  filtered  and 
fell  across  the  fair  hair  of  the  girl  as  she  sat  beside  Betha 
listening  to  the  conversation  going  on,  but  saying  noth- 
ing. She  looked  like  a  softly-tinted  blush  rose  between 
two  sober  little  pansies;  so  thought  the  man  as  his 
eyes  rested  on  the  delicate  features,  with  a  sense  of 
pleasure  at  finding  her  there. 

"And  thee  has  come  to  stay  a  long  time,  surely?" 
asked  the  mother. 

"  Surely,"  he  said,  smiling  down  on  her.  "  I  may  not 
be  much  company,  for  I  have  come  home  to  work,  to 
work  very  hard." 

"  I  fear  thee  is  doing  too  much  work,"  she  said,  chid- 
ingly;  "  thy  face  does  not  show  the  health  it  did;  it  is  paler, 
with  a  tired  look.  Thee  must  remain  with  us  and  rest." 

"  After  a  while,  after  a  while,"  he  said.  "  But  now  I 
Aave  writing  to  do,  work  that  is  to  be  done  at  a  certain 
time.  I  have  tried  to  do  it  lately,  but  it  is  of  no  use;  as 
you  say,  I  have  not  been  very  well.  I  traveled,  but  I 
could  work  nowhere,  so  I  am  come  home.  Here,  if  any- 
where, a  man  should  have  content,  and  if  you  will  keep 
me  I  shall  remain  two  months." 

"It  will  be  a  great  gladness  to  us,"  said  his  mother, 
with  earnestness,  and  then  resting  her  hand  on  the  bright 
head  before  her  added:  "The  Lord  has  granted  us 
many  blessings  of  late." 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  271 

"  Great  blessings,  Prue,"  echoed  Betha. 

And  then  the  two  housewives  flitted  out  to  interview 
their  one  assistant,  Huldah,  regarding  the  most  tooth- 
some articles  for  the  dinner  table. 

And  Crista,  with  a  half  feeling  of  shyness,  was  left 
alone  with  the  face  that  was  so  like  the  one  she  had 
admired  and  dreamed  over.  Yet  it  was  older  by  many 
years  than  when  the  picture  was  painted,  older  and 
sadder.  But  the  eyes  were  still  the  eyes  of  the 
saint  in  the  convent  chapel.  She  wondered,  looking 
at  him,  if  he  also  did  not  care  to  hear  the  saints  men- 
tioned. 

She  had  no  girlish  ideal  of  manhood  in  her  fancies,  and 
if  she  had  had,  it  would  never  have  been  filled  by  this 
man,  who  seemed  old  to  her,  though  Prue  and  Betha  had 
always  spoken  of  him  as  the  "boy."  But  there  was  a 
fanciful  vein  of  romance  in  her  nature  that  had  in  a  way 
been  nurtured  instead  of  checked  by  the  forms  of  church; 
warm,  attractive  forms  they  were  to  her,  with  just  enough 
of  mysticism  to  fill  her  mind  with  dreamy  fancies  that 
seized  on  whatever  came  nearest  and  threw  over  it  the 
glamour  of  her  own  imaginings.  Of  the  still  nuns  in  the 
convent  she  had  woven  many  a  romance  of  which  the 
subjects  were  ignorant,  and  here,  in  this  quiet  dovecote, 
as  she  called  it,  was  something  real,  tangible — a  pictured 
face  that  was  of  the  world  apart  from  her  own,  a  face 
that  she  heard  had  a  story  of  love,  perhaps  of  romance. 
There  was  no  marriage.  He  had  come  home  as  if  tired 
of  the  world,  and  his  face  when  in  repose  was  sad.  She 
noticed  the  difference  when  his  mother  left  the  room  and 
his  smiles  were  not  needed  to  make  her  think  him  cheer- 
ful. And  this  youthful  student  of  human  nature  felt  a 
great  pity  for  him,  seeing  his  eyes  close  wearily  as  he 


272  MERZE  : 

sat  in  the  glow  of  the  blazing  logs  on  the  hearthstone 
and  she  could  see  he  had  forgotten  her  presence. 

She  rose  to  her  feet  quietly  and  stood  there,  a  slim, 
slight  figure  in  a  brown  dress  as  plain  as  Betha's  own. 
She  seemed  so  in  harmony  with  the  quiet  peace  of  the 
scene;  and,  as  she  made  a  slight  movement  to  withdraw, 
the  man  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her  in  admira- 
tion. She  seemed  to  him  a  beautiful  picture  of  youth 
and  simplicity — that  was  all. 

"  Are  you  also  going? "  he  asked,  languidly,  with  a 
little  note  of  protest  in  his  voice.  She  was  so  lovely  a 
thing  to  look  at,  with  the  delicate  tinting  of  her  face  and 
the  soft  curves  of  her  girlish  figure.  He  tried  to  remem- 
ber what  it  was  his  mother  had  written  of  her  young 
friend,  destined  for  a  nun,  he  believed  in  a  vague  way. 
It  was  a  pity,  and  yet 

"  Am  I  to  be  left  alone? "  he  repeated. 

"  I  thought  I  might  disturb  you  by  being  here,  that  is 
all,"  she  answered.  "  You  looked  tired,  as  if  you  needed 
rest." 

"  Yes,  child,  yes;  I  am  tired.  But  here  perhaps  there 
may  be  rest."  The  last  portion  of  the  speech  was  more 
to  himself  than  to  her,  but  she  heard,  and  it  drew  nearer 
to  him  her  sympathies,  and  diminished  the  shyness  she 
had  felt  at  first  in  speaking  to  a  man  of  the  world,  and 
of  his  years.  She  still  stood  leaning  with  one  hand 
against  the  high  mantel,  and  spoke  a  little  timidly: 

"  If — if  it  is  your  life  that  is  tired  of  the  world,  surely 
here  would  most  peace  be  found." 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  her  a  little  aston- 
ished. The  words  were  spoken  with  the  grave  sweet- 
ness of  age  that  comprehends  the  needs  of  humanity, 
Yet  he  was  old  enough  to  be  her  father,  and  she  was 


THE    STORY    OF   AN    ACTRESS.  273 

only  a  slim  bit  of  a  girl,  with  the  open,  trustful  eyes  of 
an  infant. 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  more  intently,  "  I 
have  just  come  from  a  long  journey;  what  gave  you  the 
idea  that  it  was  the  world  of  which  I  was  tired? " 

She  was  a  little  confused  at  the  question,  but  she  had 
the  fearlessness  of  an  earnest,  sympathetic  nature. 

"  I  could  see  your  eyes  close  as  a  woman's  would  if 
— if  they  were  heavy  with  tears  instead  of  fatigue.  I  do 
not  know  much  of  men.  I  have  never  known  any  well, 
but  I  could  not  help  feeling  that  it  was  a  rest  of  the 
heart,  the  soul,  or  the  mind,  you  needed,  not  that  of  the 
body.  Perhaps,"  she  added,  gently,  "you  may  think  this 
a  rudeness,  an  impertinence,  but  indeed  I  do  not  mean 
it  so." 

"  No,"  he  answered,  quietly,  leaning  his  forehead 
against  his  hand  for  a  moment;  "  no,  child,  I  think  of 
your  words  nothing  that  is  not  noble  and  good.  Your 
sympathy  should  be  very  sweet,  very  helpful,  to  any  who 
are  in  trouble.  Let  us  hope  that  my  own  may  grow 
lighter  under  the  grace  of  kindness  and  the  peace  of 
home." 

"Ah!  it  will  surely  do  so  here,"  she  answered  quickly. 
"  I  can  not  imagine  any  great  unhappiness — like  the 
unhappiness  of  tragedies,  I  mean— beneath  this  roof.  One 
feels  always  in  a  sanctuary  here.  It  is  like  entering  the 
chapel  early  in  the  morning  before  the  sun  is  bright 
enough  to  dazzle  through  the  tinted  glass.  And  your 
mother  and  Betha,  at  first  I  scarcely  took  my  eyes  off  of 
them,  they  made  such  charming  pictures  in  their  soft 
tints  and  sweet  faces,  symphonies  in  gray  and  white." 

He  smiled  at  her  earnestness.  She  always  spoke 
rapidly,  and  her  eyes  lit  up  wonderfully  when  much  inter- 
19 


274  MERZE  : 

ested.  He  scarcely  knew  which  was  the  more  to  be 
admired,  that  or  her  silence  when  she  had  stood  per- 
fectly still  with  the  cool  repose  such  as  rested  one  to 
look  at. 

"  You  are  fond  of  my  mother?  " 

"That  does  not  express  it,"  she  returned,  with  a  rare, 
warm  smile  in  her  blue  eyes.  "  We  are  great  friends,  I 
am  thankful  to  say." 

"I  hope  your  friendship  will  extend  to  the  rest  of  her 
family." 

"  To  you?  "  and  she  turned  her  face  up  with  a  little, 
bird-like  movement.  "  That  will  not  be  hard;  I  know  you 
quite  well  already." 

"  Oh,  you  do? " 

"Very  well,  indeed,"  she  repeated,  "through  your  pic- 
ture. It  is  in  my  room  where  I  see  it  first  on  waking  in 
the  morning.  I  liked  it  from  the  first  because  it  had 
eyes  so  like  a  head  of  St.  John  that  hangs  in  our  chapel. 
But  perhaps  you  do  not  like  to  hear  the  saints  spoken 
of?" 

He  laughed  at  the  frankness  of  her  words.  He  could 
see  so  clearly  that  she  was  as  little  suited  to  the  outside 
world  as  was  his  mother  or  the  dark-robed  nuns. 

"  Why  should  I  not  like  it? "  he  asked.  "  Certainly  I  do. 
I  never  was  compared  to  one  before,  and  it  is  a  novel 
sensation,  but  if  I  remain  two  months  with  my  mother 
and  you,  I  shall  no  doubt  be  quite  saintly  by  the  end  of 
that  time.  What  will  you  make  of  me,  a  parish  priest  or 
a  solemn-faced  speaker  among  the  Friends?" 

At  this  they  both  laughed,  and  from  that  time  there 
was  no  return  to  formalities  between  them.  Her  child- 
ish wisdom,  that  was  childish  only  in  its  innocence,  was 
very  charming  to  him,  doubly  so  in  comparison  with  the 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  275 

wickedness  of  one  woman  in  whose  life  he  had  hoped 
most  to  find  truth,  and  who,  in  spite  of  his  distrust,  kept 
her  image  in  his  heart — the  image  that  he  knew  no  fairer 
face,  no  purer  soul  could  ever  supplant. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

To  Merze,  across  the  varied  beauty  of  the  Alleghenies, 
across  the  level  width  of  midlands,  was  borne  the  girl's 
letter  telling  of  her  new  friend. 

"  It  is  now  two  weeks  since  he  came,  and  already  all 
seems  so  changed.  He  works,  writing  all  day,  but  in 
the  evenings  he  puts  away  the  piles  of  manuscripts 
and  books,  and  then  he  talks  to  us,  telling  of  so  many 
strange  customs  and  religions  among  the  people  of 
our  Far  West;  the  people  whose  temples  still  stand 
though  they  themselves  have  vanished  like  those  of 
Etruria.  He  has  seen  so  much  and  remembers  so  well. 
And  to  listen  is  like  hearing  repeated  tales  like  those  the 
monk  Froissart  loved  to  garner.  He  tells  them  so  well, 
and  only  when  doing  so  does  one  detect  a  tinge  of  the 
Quaker  in  him  that  has  come  through  his  mother.  His 
tones  at  times  drop  into  the  light,  chanting  rythm,  such 
as  the  Friends  use  in  their  meetings.  I  have  been  to 
meeting  once  with  Betha,  but  their  ceremonies  are  not 
attractive  after  the  beauty  of  our  own.  Friend  Mortimer 
— they  have  all  requested  that  I  address  them  in  their  own 
simple  forms,  goes,  I  think,  to  all  churches.  He  speaks 
to  me  often  of  my  life  in  the  convent,  and  seems  to  think 
it  is  a  beautiful  one  to  live.  You  know  I  wrote  to  you  of 
some  lady  whom  he  loved;  well,  I  think  he  is  unhappy 


276  MERZE  : 

because  of  her,  that  she  does  not  love  him,  for  Betha  says 
he  speaks  no  more  of  her  to  Friend  Prue,  and  when  she 
herself  mentioned  it,  he  only  said:  '  It  is  over;  let  it  rest, 
and  down  here  with  you  and  my  work  I  will  forget.' 

"  But  I  am  sure  he  does  not  forget.  We  talk  much  to 
each  other,  and  I  think  he  is  glad  to  do  so,  often  that  he 
may  get  away  from  his  own  thoughts.  I  am  pleased  to 
know  that  it  is  so.  In  looking  at  his  picture  I  had 
fancied  all  sorts  of  romances  about  him  and  the  lady, 
whom  I  feel  sure  is  beautiful.  And  now  if  he  has  come 
home  and  will  forget  all  about  her,  he  will  not  suit  one 
of  the  stories  I  had  imagined  of  him. 

"  He  is  very  kind  to  me,  as  they  all  are.  Yesterday  I 
entered  the  room  where  he  writes.  His  face  was  cov- 
ered with  his  hands  and  he  did  not  see  me  until  I  spoke. 
I  asked  if  he  was  troubled,  if  I  could  help  him.  He 
looked  at  me  kindly,  and  said:  '  Child,  if  there  is  any 
balm  among  humanity  for  hearts  that  are  world-weary, 
it  must  be  held  in  the  pure  palms  of  hands  like  yours. 
You  do  help  me,  have  helped  me  much.' 

"  I  repeat  his  words.  His  language  is  to  me  always 
beautiful.  I  wish  you  could  know  him.  I  think  you 
would  like  him.  When  I  said  the  same  to  him  he  asked: 
4  Is  this  sister  Mercy  of  yours  like  you?'  and  when  I  tried 
to  tell  him  how  much  more  grand  and  beautiful  and  good 
you  are,  he  stopped  me.  '  There/  he  said,  '  no  more. 
She  is  a  grand  lady  of  the  world,  no  doubt,  and  some 
day  she  will  come  in  state  and  carry  you  away  out  of  our 
sight.  That  vision  of  the  future  is  sure  to  make  me 
detest  her  on  principle.  I  will  hear  no  more  of  this  par- 
agon whom  you  add  to  the  list  of  your  saints,  and  wor- 
ship.' It  was  only  in  jest,  for  I  know  he  would  admire 
you  much.  But  when  I  try  to  talk  of  you  he  will  say: 


THE   STORY    OP   AN    ACTRESS.  27? 

'Speak  to  me  of  yourself,  child;  let  us  forget  there  is  a 
world  outside.' 

"I  see  I  am  filling  my  letter  entirely  with  him;  but  he 
fills  so  much  of  our  lives  here  that  I  can  not  help  speak- 
ing of  him.  His  mother  and  Betha  are  spoiling  him,  so 
he  says.  And  I,  from  the  first  day,  I  have  been  sorry 
for  him  because  I  see  often  that  he  is  troubled.  I  have 
never  seen  trouble  myself;  all  my  life  has  been  so  still 
and  peaceful,  and  to  see  others  unhappy,  hurts  me. 

"  I  have  many  letters  from  the  convent.  They  seem 
to  miss  me  very  much,  and  I  miss  them  in  spite  of  my 
pleasant  life.  Most  of  all  I  feel  homesick  for  our  chapel. 
At  Christmas  it  was  a  labor  of  love  to  decorate  it,  and 
here  it  is  all  so  different.  I  miss  the  beauty  of  our 
religious  ceremonies.  I  do  not  know  that  they  them- 
selves take  one  nearer  heaven,  and  I  feel  there  are  many 
good  people  like  these  little  gray-garbed  Friends  who 
know  nothing  of  them;  but  I  feel  also  that  they  give 
ari  exaltation  to  our  devotion.  I  like  to  see  the  altars 
in  memory  of  the  Child  and  to  our  Father  heaped  with 
the  best  our  hands  can  give.  Surely  the  warmth  and 
color  of  our  service,  and  the  grandeur  of  echoing  choirs 
are  acceptable  to  Him.  If  beauty  of  sight  and  sound 
were  not  good  and  to  be  desired  in  His  eyes,  would 
there  be  lavished  on  our  earth  the  brightness  of  blossoms 
that  could  only  have  opened  their  loveliness  under  the 
smile  of  God?  or  could  we  hear  the  echo  of  His  voice 
that  comes  through  the  grandeur  of  oceans,  the  lips  of 
shells  or  the  throats  of  birds?  I  can  imagine  one  who  is 
weak  in  faith  turning  atheist;  but  I  can  never  imagine 
one  reared  in  our  church  who  would  desert  it  for  the 
colder  forms. 

"You  will  think  my  letter  endless.     I  shall  be  glad 


278  MERZE  : 

when  we  meet,  when  there  will  be  no  need  of  letters.  I 
thank  you  for  the  books  you  sent.  I  wonder  if  there  was 
ever  another  sister  like  you?  I  think  not,  never  one  so 
thoughtful,  so  kind  in  all  things.  I  take  with  open  hands 
all  the  pleasures  you  lavish  on  me,  and  in  return  I  give 
nothing.  I  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  repay  you. 
I  fear  not.  But  every  day  of  my  life  I  pray  that  it 
may  be  so — that  I  may  be  shown  some  way  in  which 
I  can  prove  my  gratitude. 

"  To-morrow  Friend  Mortimer  is  to  take  me  to  a  village 
five  miles  away  where  there  is  one  of  our  churches.  It 
is  very  kind  of  him  to  take  the  trouble;  but  he  is  always 
kind.  Every  night  in  my  prayers  I  wish  that  the  lady 
may  yet  be  more  tender  and  learn  to  love  him.  It  seems 
silly  for  me  to  care,  but  I  do  not  like  to  see  his  eyes  look 
sad." 

"  Loving  little  heart,"  murmured  Merze  gently,  as  she 
finished  the  letter.  "  Gratitude  to  me!  I  think  the  sense 
of  having  someone  dependent  on  me  to  care  for,  a  pure 
young  life  to  save  from  the  pitfalls  of  my  own,  was  all 
that  saved  me  from  going  mad  those  dreadful  days." 

The  routine  of  Merze's  life  in  New  York  had  become 
irksome  to  her,  and  when  there  had  been  some  talk  of 
sending  the  company  on  the  road,  she  showed  as  much 
animation  as  she  did  in  anything  of  late,  and  expressed 
herself  as  willing  to  go,  if  they  could  find  a  substitute^for 
her  in  the  stock  company  of  the  "  Chatel "  until  the  short 
tour  through  the  West  should  be  finished. 

"It  is  foolish  for  you  to  do  so,"  admonished  Orlane 
and  others  of  her  friends.  "  Your  position  here  is  as- 
sured. Do  not  throw  it  aside  and  give  opportunities  to 
another.  The  public  is  always  fickle." 

"  It  is  the  best  way  to  determine  my  own  worth,"  she 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  279 

replied.  <;  If  I  merit  their  approbation  I  shall  get  it,  no 
matter  who  is  in  the  field,  and  if  I  do  not — well,  the 
sooner  I  know  it  the  better." 

Guarda,  himself,  had  advised  nothing.  "  Consider 
well  before  you  decide,"  he  had  said;  that  was  all.  He 
was  glad  that  she  was  at  all  interested  in  anything,  and 
he  felt  a  pleasure  in  the  thought  of  getting  her  away 
from  her  rooms  in  that  house.  He  knew  it  could  not 
but  have  a  bad  effect  on  her;  for  the  ghosts  of  a  dead 
love  and  a  dead  crime  would  walk  ever  beside  her  through 
those  halls. 

She  wanted  to  go  to  Crista,  but  felt  she  was  not 
strong  enough.  She  knew  the  girl  could  not  but  won- 
der at  her  silence  regarding  herself  and  her  marriage. 
She  had  not  told  her  as  yet  even  of  his  death.  There 
would  be  such  an  accumulation  of  things  to  be  ex- 
plained that  she  did  not  feel  equal  to  the  task.  Perhaps 
on  her  return  she  would  be.  And  so  she  left. 

Her  health  was  not  good.  It  seemed  strange  that 
she  who  had  always  been  so  strong  should  have  to  sub- 
mit to  the  care  of  a  physician. 

"  Over-work,"  said  that  gentleman  decidedly.  "  Get 
away  from  here,  any  where;  leave  the  work  behind  you; 
travel  if  possible;  change  of  air  will  do  you  good,  more 
than  medicine.  A  severe  attack  of  nervous  prostration 
will  be  the  next  on  your  list  if  you  don't  get  away  from 
this  treadmill.  '  Only  three  hours'  work  in  a  night?' 
— you  are  not  able  to  stand  one.  '  Hand  steady,  eh?' — 
Yes,  but  how  about  the  brain,  and  sleepless  nights? 
Don't  come  to  me  for  advice  if  you  don't  intend  to  take 
it." 

And  so  it  had  been  settled  that  she  was  to  go  with  the 
company,  and  Guarda,  also.  The  travel  was  a  new  ex- 


280  MERZE : 

perience  to  her.  Since  her  childhood  she  had  traveled 
but  little,  and  the  beauties  of  the  journey  from  the  Hud- 
son to  the  Mississippi  had  done  as  much  as  anything 
could  do  to  rouse  her  from  her  melancholy.  The  love 
of  nature  in  its  varied  forms  was  always  strong  in  her, 
untrained,  unconscious  pantheist  that  she  was. 

It  was  in  St.  Louis  that  Crista's  letter  came  to  her  as 
she  sat  idly  by  the  window  looking  out  and  thinking  that 
somewhere  about  there  she  must  have  lived  in  the  old 
days.  She  could  not  remember  where  their  house  had 
been,  but  Jack  had  spoken  of  being  in  "  high  luck  "  in 
St.  Louis,  and  she  remembered  their  floating  down  past 
there  afterward  when  they  landed  the  little  shanty-boat 
long  enough  for  her  to  go  up  and  skirmish  around  until 
she  could  sell  the  big  bundle  of  "  sang  root "  she  carried, 
and  get  some  cheap  coffee  and  necessary  articles.  Jack 
could  not  go  for  them,  because  his  shoes  were  not 
fit. 

What  a  wretched  life  it  had  been,  and  how  impotent 
had  seemed  her  protests  against  it!  And  now,  with  all 
her  gain  of  hard-earned  place  and  praise,  was  the  stormy 
heart  any  nearer  rest?  It  was,  at  least,  rebellious  no 
longer,  and  if  the  calm  was  not  that  of  content,  it  was  as 
peaceful  outwardly;  and  none  but  herself  knew  that  the 
stillness  was  that  of  a  chastened  soul  under  the  hand  of 
what  she  deemed  a  just  retribution. 

To  please  Guarda  she  tried  to  show  interest  in  the 
many  places  and  things  he  wished  her  to  see.  Her  suc- 
cess had  been  very  flattering,  and  she  was  thankful  for 
her  work.  Those  three  hours  were  the  only  waking  ones 
out  of  the  twenty-four  in  which  she  could  forget  herself, 
and  she  was  grateful  for  the  assumed  personality. 

Guarda  entered  with  hat  and  cane,  looking  astonished 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  281 

as  he  found  her  in  morning  dress  ana  suppers,  with 
Crista's  letter  open  in  her  hand. 

"You  are  a  fine  young  lady,"  he  began;  "  still  in  that 
dress,  and  here  am  I,  an  old  man,  through  a  lot  of  busi- 
ness, and  now  ready  for  our  walk." 

"  Our  walk?" 

"  Certainly,  our  walk.  Have  I  brought  you  away  out 
here  to  let  you  return  as  ignorant  as  you  came?  Of 
course  not.  You  must  see  something  of  the  sights;  so 
get  ready  and  come  along." 

"  Really,  Massa  Mark,"  she  protected,  smilingly,  "  I 
am  very  comfortable  as  I  am." 

"I  believe  you;  &><?  comfortable.  I  can't  stand  it  to 
see  people  enjoying  such  elegant  ease.  I  have  had  to 
spoil  you  lately  a  little,  but  now  as  you  are  growing  more 
like  yourself,  I  chall  be  as  tyrannical  as  ever;  so  prepare 
yourself." 

"  Very  well;  I  submit.  But  listen  first  to  Crista's  let- 
ter; it  has  just  come.  It  is  so  like  herself,  tender-hearted 
and  sympathetic." 

"  Spare  me  the  praises;  I  have  to  listen  to  a  series  of 
them  every  letter  that  comes.  She  is  incomparable;  I 
take  that  for  granted.  But  proceed.  I  am  ready  to 
listen." 

And  he  settled  himself  with  a  martyr-like  expression 
on  his  whimsical  old  face.  He  was  in  the  best  of  spir- 
its, for  he  told  himself  a  dozen  times  a  day  that  she  was 
improving — was  more  like  herself — and  that  was  enough 
to  repay  him  for  separation  from  even  his  beloved  New 
York. 

"Remember,"  he  stipulated,  as  she  was  about  to  be- 
gin, "if  I  listen,  you,  in  return,  must  come  out  with 
me." 


282  MER2E  : 

"  Where?"  she  asked,  looking  up.  "  I  will  make  no  rash 
promises.  Your  propensities  for  sight-seeing  are  becom- 
ing alarming.  I  don't  care  to  bind  myself  blindly  to 
your  chariot  wheels." 

"  But  it  is  not  far  to-day,  Merze;  only  a  few  blocks 
from  the  hotel,  and  it  is  to  a  little  coffee-house." 

She  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Yes,"  he  nodded,  "that  is  where  I  shall  take  you; 
where  you  can  take  your  coffee  and  your  doughnuts  and 
your  pie  on  one  of  the  little  wooden  tables,  or,  if  you 
choose,  you  can  climb  up  on  a  high  stool  and  take 
them  from  the  counter." 

"Well,"  she  said,  resignedly,  "go  on;  tell  me  what 
you  mean." 

"  I  mean  I  have  found  a  bonanza!"  he  announced, 
characteristically.  "  Yes,  that  is  what  it  is  to  me.  You 
know  my  hobby  for  old  engravings,  old  play-bills,  and 
such  things?  Well,  down  in  that  little  coffee-house  is  a 
man  with  whom  it  has  been  more  than  that;  it  is  a  pas- 
sion. For  over  twenty  years  he  has  been  gathering  one 
here,  one  there,  until  the  walls  of  his  house  are  lined 
with  them,  and  cases  and  trunks  stored  away  contain 
chronicles  and  pictured  faces  that  date  back  to  the  be- 
ginning of  our  art  in  America.  As  I  looked  over  them 
yesterday,  a  multitude  of  histories  passed  in  review  be- 
fore my  memory.  But  I  was  not  selfish  enough  to  en- 
joy them  alone.  I  waited,  and  have  come  for  you,  and 
you  will  miss  a  great  treat  if  you  do  not  come.  My 
words  can  give  you  but  little  idea  of  the  wealth  to  our 
profession  that  is  garnered  in  that  unassuming  little 
place." 

"Certainly;  I  shall  be  glad  to  go  if  it  will  please 
you." 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  283 

"Very  well;  I  will  go  so  far  in  return  then  to  say  I 
shall  be  glad  even  to  listen  to  the  girl's  letter  to  please 
you;"  and  he  leaned  his  chin  on  the  hands  that  were 
clasped  over  his  cane,  while  he  listened  to  the  letter  with 
a  face  like  a  sphinx,  for  all  the  interest  it  showed. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  her  now?"  she  asked,  triumph- 
antly. Surely  he  could  not  withstand  the  sweetness  of 
the  nature  that  showed  through  the  written  lines.  He 
looked  at  her  a  moment,  and  then  said: 

"  Well,  I  think  about  the  first  thing  she  will  do  will  be 
to  marry  '  Friend  Mortimer."  " 

"Massa  Mark!" 

The  voice  was  one  of  horror — a  wild  protest  against 
the  thought  that  was  hateful  to  her. 

"  Why  not?"  he  asked,  brusquely.  "  I  told  you  how  it 
would  be.  And  this  is  the  first  gentleman  she  has 
known.  I  thought  it  would  be  the  first.  And  he,  I 
suppose,  is  some  broken-hearted  lover  going  into  retire- 
ment to  mourn  a  faithless  Rosalind.  Well,  he  has  found 
a  Juliet  willing  to  heal  his  scars." 

"  Massa  Mark,  don't  be  sarcastic  over  it,"  she  pleaded. 
"Surely  you  must  be  mistaken.  She  is  such  a  child; 
that  is  why  she  writes  in  this  frank,  impulsive  manner. 
She  means  nothing." 

"  I  can  easily  see  that,"  he  answered,  grimly.  "  If  she 
did  she  would  not  say  so  much.  You  don't  know  much 
of  your  own  sex,  Merze,  or  you  would  see  as  clearly  as  I. 
She  is  young,  lovely,  charming,  with  a  bent  for  romances. 
The  first  man  she  meets  is  a  hero  in  her  eyes.  He  is 
sad;  she  sympathizes  in  a  tender,  childish  way.  Men 
are  only  mortal,  my  dear  Merze.  Tenderness  and  sym- 
pathy from  soft  eyes  are  coins  that  pass  current  the 
world  over  in  exchange  for  men's  hearts." 


284  MERZE  : 

"  It  would  be  dreadful,"  she  said,  more  to  herself  than 
to  him. 

"  I  doubt  if  she  will  think  so.  Come,  come,  Merze, 
don't  take  it  so  seriously.  You  must  expect  something 
of  the  sort  sometime  if  she  does  not  return  to  the  con- 
vent." 

"  I  never  expected  it,  never."  It  seemed  to  her  that 
everything  was  slipping  from  her  grasp. 

"  That  is  because  you  live  too  much  in  a  world  by 
yourself  to  know  much  of  human  nature  in  others.  But 
we  will  hope  for  the  best,  since  the  idea  seems  to  dis- 
please you.  You  can  do  nothing,  at  any  rate,  until  you 
return  to  the  East.  Come,  get  on  your  things  to  go  out. 
Let  the  Quaker  and  your  young  saint  discuss  theology 
to  their  hearts'  content,  but  don't  worry  your  brain  over 
them.  Come  with  me  instead,  and  see  the  collection  of 
pictures." 

And  he  shambled  down  stairs,  striking  each  step 
viciously  with  his  cane  as  he  went.  He  could  see  that 
their  pleasure  was  spoilt  for  that  day,  perhaps  for  many 
to  come,  and  all  because  of  that  girl. 

"  A  young  saint,"  he  grumbled  while  waiting  for 
Merze.  "  Bah!  why  not?  But  would  she  be  one  if  her 
life  had  been  laid  in  the  same  path  with  Merze's?  Only 
through  the  fire  of  the  furnace  can  we  test  the  clay." 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 

"  And  that  is  all  the  knowledge  you  have  of  her 
family?" 

"  That  is  all,  Mortimer.  I  hear  her  mention  no  kin- 
dred but  this  one  sister  who  is  married,  who  provides 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  285 

for  her  well,  and  to  whom  she  gives  great  love.  It  is 
strange  to  me  that  she  should  be  left  so  to  herself.  But 
the  worldly  are  prone  to  paths  of  folly,  and  their  lights  may 
show  them  how  little  she  is  fitted  for  such  wanderings." 

"You  are  right,  mother;  feet  like  hers  would  be  lost 
in  the  labyrinths.  She  should  be  shielded  always  from 
the  fret  of  the  world.1' 

"Would  thee  wish  her  shield  to  be  the  walls  of  a 
convent,  my  son?" 

The  question  caused  him  to  turn  wondering  eyes  to 
the  placid  face. 

"I  do  not  know — I  have  not  thought,"  he  answered; 
"but  even  that  would  be  better  than  sending  her  out 
into  the  whirlpool  of  fashionable  life,  which  is  no  doubt 
what  her  sister  shares.  Yes,  I  see  nothing  that  is  better 
for  her  than  the  convent."  And  yet,  he  felt  a  half  irrita- 
tion at  the  thought. 

"  Would  not  the  peace  in  a  husband's  home  be  better?" 
and  with  the  slow  earnest  words  came  to  him  the  sense 
of  her  meaning. 

"  Mother!"  he  said  sharply,  rising  and  walking  across 
the  room  and  back  again.  Then  he  stopped  beside  her 
and  asked  more  quietly,  "  What  has  given  you  such 
thoughts?" 

"  If  thee  was  not  so  blind  thy  own  eyes  would  see," 
she  answered,  smiling  a  little  into  his  troubled  face,  and 
then  continued  more  seriously:  "  My  son,  thy  home- 
coming was  for  rest,  so  thee  said,  rest  from  the  world, 
that  thee  might  do  in  peace  thy  work;  well,  my  eyes  are 
old,  but  they  see  clearly  that  more  than  rest — content 
has  in  part  come  to  thee  through  this  child  who  would 
be  more  than  friend,  who  would  be  wife  if  thee  should 
so  choose," 


286  MERZE  : 

"Mother!"  and  he  sat  down,  leaning  his  head  on  his 
hand,  trying  to  think  back  over  those  quiet  days.  Con- 
tent! Yes,  in  a  way,  but  it  was  only  that  of  resignation 
to  him.  And  content  alone  is  very  dangerous  to  either 
husband  or  wife.  Wife!  He  had  not  thought  of  it. 
The  difference  in  their  ages  had  made  it  seem  a  thing 
impossible.  Through  that  safeguard  he  had  been  kind 
unto  tenderness  in  many  ways  that  ranged  themselves  in 
mute  reproach  before  him  now.  He  had  thought  of  her 
only  as  of  a  child,  loving-hearted  to  all  alike;  but  per- 
haps he  had  allowed  his  own  pain  to  blind  him,  perhaps 
he  had  been  selfishly  resting  in  this  sweet  friendship, 
heedless  of  what  it  might  mean  to  her. 

His  mother  touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  "Will 
thee  give  to  me  a  daughter,  Mortimer?"  she  asked  with 
kind  eyes  bent  on  him.  She  knew  he  would  never  wed 
among  her  own  sect,  and  though  Crista's  religion  was 
not  a  pleasure  to  her,  she  felt  that  nowhere  else  would 
he  find  a  wife  with  such  singleness  of  heart  and  purity 
of  life.  And  of  late  she  had  noticed  how  the  girl's  eyes 
would  light  at  sight  of  him,  how  a  careless  word  of 
praise  from  him  would  leave  her  happy  and  singing 
about  the  house  all  day.  And  at  last  she  determined  to 
speak  to  him. 

Clasping  his  hand  over  the  one  on  his  shoulder, 
"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  mother,  you  speak  for  the  best,  I 
know.  But  I  am  old  enough  to  be  her  father.  What  is 
there  to  offer  in  exchange  for  that  young  life?  I  have 
no  love  to  give,  and,  deep  as  my  reverence  for  her  is,  I 
know  I  never  shall  have." 

"  Perhaps  in  time — "  she  began,  but  he  checked  her. 

"  I  have  no  such  hope,  mother.  I  told  you  of  a  lady 
for  whom  I  might  ask  your  love,  did  I  not?  Well, 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  287 

listen;  I  have  avoided  all  mention  of  her,  but  now  I 
must  speak  and  leave  you  to  judge  for  me.  You  see  my 
hand?"  and  he  held  out  the  scarred  member.  "  I  told 
you  not  to  question  me  regarding  it.  That  was  injured 
in  her  service  weeks  ago.  I  can  not  tell  you  what  my 
love  and  reverence  for  her  were — to  me  she  was  the  one 
woman  in  the  world.  Well,  all  hope  of  our  lives  being 
spent  together  is  past.  She  has  been  unworthy  of  my 
faith.  Our  paths  are  parted.  I  hope  never  to  see  her 
face,  but  so  long  as  those  scars  remain,  so  long  as  life 
lasts,  I  know  that  no  other  woman  will  take  her  place  in 
my  thoughts." 

"  My  son,  love  such  as  that  is  unholy.  Thee  should 
not  garner  up  thy  affections  where  there  is  no  room  for 
respect.  It  will  bring  no  blessing." 

"  I  have  no  hope  that  it  will,  my  mother,"  he  answered 
bitterly.  "  I  only  tell  you  this  to  show  you  how  little  I 
am  fit  to  share  this  young  girl's  life.  I  leave  you  to 
judge  if  I  am  not  right." 

The  little  lady  rocked  her  low  chair  in  silence  for  a 
while  before  answering. 

"  My  Mortimer,"  she  said,  at  last,  "the  Spirit  gives  to 
me  no  light  wherein  I  can  see  that  thee  is.  A  love 
which  thee  knows  well  is  unworthy,  and  yet  which  binds 
thee,  is  akin  to  the  witcheries  that  raged  because  of  the 
evil  passions  in  men's  souls;  and  I  know  of  no  act  more 
potent  to  exorcise  them  than  the  content  and  peace  of  a 
life  with  a  pure  woman." 

He  made  no  reply.  He  had  asked  her  judgment  and 
she  had  given  it,  earnestly  and  placidly,  but  with  little 
comprehension  of  the  love  she  condemned.  Her  own 
journey  on  life's  river  had  been  one  of  calmness  and 
peace.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  tempests  that  stir  the 


288  MERZE  : 

depths  of  ocean,  and  draw  down  darkness  that  veils 
forever  the  stars.  He  knew  that,  but  at  the  same  time 
he  knew  that  after  a  fashion  he  was  not  guiltless  in  the 
matter  of  his  friendship  with  Crista.  If  his  mother  was 
right,  if  she  did  care,  he  felt  that  the  fault  lay  in  his 
carelessness.  She  was  only  a  child,  but  he  should  have 
thought  for  her. 

"  You  think  she  cares,  mother?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"  Notice  for  thyself  with  this  new  light  in  thy  mind," 
answered  the  old  lady  as  she  heard  the  young  girl's  step 
on  the  porch. 

"Poor  child!"  he  said  as  he  opened  the  door  and  she 
entered  looking  at  him  with  dear,  glad  eyes  and  a  light 
in  them  that  made  him  turn  away  with  a  tired  feeling  in 
his  heart. 

"Ah,  Friend  Mortimer!"  she  said  gaily,  "you  should 
have  been  along.  I  walked  to  the  foot  of  the  mountain, 
a  mile  away.  It  is  beautiful.  Already  the  sun  is  grow- 
ing quite  warm.  And  what  has  made  the  whole  day 
seem  lovely  to  me  is  a  letter  from  my  sister  Mercy. 
Perhaps  she  may  come  soon  to  see  me.  She  has  been 
traveling,  but  now  she  is  to  return  to  New  York,  and 
will  come  here  at  once.  Are  you  not  glad?" 

"  Glad  to  lose  thee?"  and  the  old  lady  shook  her  head 
smilingly.  "Surely  thee  can  not  expect  us  to  be  glad 
for  such  a  loss." 

"  Not  to  lose  me.  When  she  sees  how  happy  I  am 
and  how  beautiful  it  is  to  live  here,  she  may  get  a  home 
somewhere  near.  I  should  like  that,  except  for  the  loss 
of  our  church — we  should  have  to  go  a  long  distance." 

"  I  hope  thee  will  find  happiness  wherever  thee  is," 
said  Mrs.  Menturn,  kindly. 

"  I  seem  to  find  nothing  else,  Friend  Prue,"  and  the 


THE   STORY   OF   AN   ACTRESS.  289 

girl  kissed  her  cheek  warmly.  "  My  life  appears  selfish 
to  me  at  times.  One's  days  should  be  passed  in  some 
more  useful  way  than  in  the  mere  enjoyment  of  pleas- 
ures, when  there  are  so  many  wretched  people  in  the 
world  whom  we  might  help  to  happiness,  if  we  only 
knew.  And  I  have  received  also  to-day  a  letter  from 
the  convent,  from  Sister  Paul,  such  a  kind  letter!  They 
ask  if  it  is  possible  for  me  to  go  to  them  at  Easter,  if 
only  for  a  few  days.  It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  know  they 
all  care  for  me  so  much.  I  shall  write  at  once  and  ask 
Mercy's  consent." 

In  the  e-xcitement  of  her  letters  and  her  gladness  at 
the  thought  of  seeing  Merze,  she  had  for  a  time  not 
noticed  the  quiet  of  the  man's  face.  When  she  did,  her 
eyes  changed  quickly,  and  she  walked  directly  to  him, 
laying  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Friend  Mortimer,  -what  is  it?  You  do  not  look 
happy." 

"  Few  are  so  happy  as  yourself,  Crista,"  he  answered, 
evasively. 

"  But  you  have  seemed  so  lately,  so  very  much  hap- 
pier than  when  you  came  first,  and  now  you  should  be 
doubly  so.  You  are  almost  through  with  your  work, 
and  you  will  have  more  leisure,  and  we  shall  have  whole 
days  to  share  with  you  instead  of  only  the  evenings," 
and  she  smiled  across  to  his  mother  as  she  spoke. 

"  But/'  he  answered,  trying  to  smile,  also,  "you  do  not 
take  into  consideration  that  when  my  work  is  finished  I 
shall  go  away  again." 

"Go — away!"  It  was  not  a  question,  only  a  dull 
repetition  of  his  words.  The  letters  in  her  hand  were 
forgotten.  They  fell  unheeded  to  the  floor,  while  she 
stood  looking  at  him  as  if  unable  to  gather  the  sense  of 

19 


290  MERZE : 

his  words.  The  old  lady  picked  up  the  letters  and  laid 
them  aside,  as  if  not  noticing  her  agitation. 

"  I  have  laid  thy  letters  on  the  mantel-shelf,  Crista, 
child,"  she  said,  kindly.  "Thy  walk  has  tired  thee,  I 
think.  Betha  shall  make  thee  a  cup  of  tea." 

Crista  scarcely  heard.  Her  eyes  were  on  his  face, 
in  which  she  could  see  suffering,  though  she  did  not 
know  the  cause. 

"Go  away!"  The  words  fell  heavily  on  her  heart- 
She  had  not  thought  of  it,  unless  it  was  as  of  something 
in  the  far  future,  and,  coming  suddenly  like  that,  she 
could  only  repeat  the  words  and  feel  through  them  a 
sense  of  loss. 

"  Crista,  Crista!"  he  said,  remorsefully,  "  would  you 
care  so  much?" 

'•  Care!"  The  tears  were  filling  her  eyes  as  she  looked 
at  him.  All  else  was  forgotten  in  that  moment  but  the 
one  thought  that  he  was  going  away,  and  his  journeys 
were  sometimes  so  long — she  might  never  see  him  again, 
and 

"Don't  cry,  Crista,"  he  said,  a  little  brokenly,  "but 
listen  to  me.  I  am  an  old  man  in  contrast  with  your 
years,  but  there  is  only  one  way  in  which  you  can  ask 
me  to  remain — now,  and  that  is  to  say  you  will  be  my 
wife." 

She  looked  at  him  wonderingly  through  her  tears. 
The  thought  of  wifehood  had  never  come  to  her;  he 
felt  sure  of  that  from  her  face. 

"A  wife — I!"  That  seemed  as  difficult  to  compre- 
hend as  his  going  away.  "  Do  you,  Friend  Mortimer,  do 
you  mean  that,  a  wife?" 

"  I  mean  that,  if  you  think  you  would  be  contented  so. 
A.m  I  to  go  or  stay?" 


THE   STORY   OF    AN    ACTRESS.  291 

It  was  not  a  lover-like  wooing,  but  his  face  was  very 
kind,  and  to  lose  sight  of  it,  perhaps  forever,  was  a 
thought  she  could  not  endure.  She  left  her  hand  lie  in 
his  and  said,  softly: 

"  Please  stay,  Friend  Mortimer." 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 

In  some  way  the  old  happy  friendship  seemed  lost 
between  them  after  the  strange  betrothal  in  which  the 
word  love  had  not  entered.  The  two  old  ladies  were 
delighted ;  Prue  expressed  her  pleasure  and  Betha 
echoed  it  a  dozen  times  a  day.  But  the  couple  most  in- 
terested found  themselves  at  a  disadvantage  with  which 
they  never  had  to  combat  before. 

The  old  ladies,  with  the  best  of  intentions,  left  them 
more  to  themselves  than  of  old.  But  fond  as  they  were 
of  each  other,  they  found  the  subjects  for  conversation 
that  had  formerly  been  the  most  fascinating,  dull  and 
spiritless;  why?  Perhaps  because  each  showed  too  plainly 
how  great  was  the  effort  to  please. 

He  was  very  gentle  and  loving  in  his  tone  and  manner 
to  her.  Once  he  had  clasped  his  hands  about  her  face 
and  kissed  her  reverently  on  the  forehead;  she  was  still 
to  him  his  ideal  of  a  young  saint,  whom  man's  kisses 
should  not  tarnish.  And  she,  looking  wistfully  at  him, 
wondered  if  it  was  so  he  would  have  kissed  the  lady 
whom  they  had  spoken  of  as  having  his  love  once. 

She  thought  he  did  not  look  as  happy  as  before,  and 
alone  at  night  the  tears  would  come  in  spite  of  her  as 
she  thought  of  the  dear,  dead  friendship  for  which  they 
had  so  little  recompense.  Was  it  love?  she  wondered. 


292  MERZE  : 

He  had  not  said  so,  though  he  had  called  her  childish 
pet  names  and  teased  her  a  little  about  her  old  idea  of 
being  a  nun.  But  the  jest  had  a  hollow  ring  in  her 
sensitive  ear.  She  felt,  at  times,  like  going  to  him  and 
asking:  "  Do  you  love  me?  are  you  happy?"  but  a  shy- 
ness had  come  over  her  when  with  him.  She  could  not 
speak  in  the  old  fearless  way,  and  to  Merze  she  wrote: 

"  I  hope  you  can  come  soon,  my  dear  sister.  I  have 
new  and  strange  things  to  tell  you.  I  scarcely  know  yet 
myself  whether  it  is  happiness  or  not.  But  Friend 
Mortimer  asked  me  two  days  ago  to  be  his  wife,  and  I 
said  yes.  You  may  think  this  very  wrong  without  con- 
sulting you.  I  know  that  would  have  been  only  right, 
but  please  do  not  blame  him,  for  I  feel  sure  the  fault  is 
mine;  we  have  been  such  very  good  friends.  It  has  been 
such  a  pleasure  for  me  to  be  with  him,  and  when  he 
spoke  of  leaving  home,  and  I  might  never  see  him  again, 
it  seemed  to  me  as  if  an  end  of  all  things  had  come.  I 
am  not  sure  what  I  said  or  did,  but  I  know  I  was  very 
silly  and  cried,  and  begged  him  not  to  go,  and  then, 
almost  before  I  knew  it,  I  had  promised  to  be  his  wife 
if  he  remained.  And  you  must  not  blame  him,  for  if  it 
had  not  been  for  my  folly,  I  feel  sure  he  would  have 
waited  until  he  had  seen  you,  and  then  asked  quite 
properly,  if  at  all.  That  thought  will  keep  intruding  on 
my  mind — the  fear  that  he  asked  only  because  he  was 
sorry  to  leave  me  when  I  cried.  I  may  be  wrong;  I 
hope  so. 

"  He  is  grand,  I  think.  I  am  more  in  awe  of  him  than 
when  we  were  only  friends — only  friends!  I  am  not 
quite  sure  what  we  are  now.  But  I  love  and  admire  him 
very  much.  I  think  there  is  no  one  like  him.  He  is 
not  young;  he  says  he  is  old  enough  to  be  my  father, 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  295 

but  I  am  sure  he  does  not  look  so.  He  is  tall  and  dark 
and  very  handsome.  I  hope  you  will  like  him,  and  be 
friends.  To-day  he  said  if  I  would  give  him  your  ad- 
dress he  would  write  you,  but  I  asked  him  to  wait  until 
you  came,  which  will,  I  hope,  be  soon. 

"A  letter  came  to-day  from  Sister  Paul.  They  want 
me  much  to  go  to  them  for  Easter,  and  I  think  I  should 
like  to.  I  am  homesick  for  a  sight  of  our  chapel  decked 
in  its  flowers,  and  the  Easter  lilies  white  as  the  soul  of 
the  Christ. 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  be  vexed  with  me,  my  sister.  I 
am  not  so  happy  as  I  should  be,  and  the  thought  of  your 
displeasure  would  make  me  very  wretched.  He  has  said 
nothing  of  our  marriage,  but  acts  as  if  that  is  a  question 
for  you  to  decide;  he  seems  to  think  me  only  a  child. 
But  I  am  not  sure.  People  outgrow  their  childhood  very 
quickly,  sometimes,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  have  done  so.  I 
wonder  if  people  who  love  can  forget  easily?  It  is  not 
long  since  they  spoke  of  his  love  for  some  lady  away 
from  here.  I  think  it  was  a  half  fanciful  idea  I  had  con- 
ceived of  them  and  their  love  that  first  made  me  love 
him,  and  now  he  has  asked  for  me  as  a  wife.  He  could 
not  have  loved  her  if  he  has  forgotten  her  so  soon.  But 
perhaps  he  has  not  forgotten.  I  would  like  to  ask,  but 
am  afraid  of  what  the  answer  might  be." 

This  letter,  despite  Guarda's  prophesies,  was  a  terrible 
shock  to  Merze  on  her  arrival  in  New  York,  and  one 
that  took  all  her  remaining  strength  to  endure.  For 
weeks  the  old  man  could  deceive  himself  no  longer. 
Instead  of  gaining  in  health  she  was  slowly  but  surely 
declining.  She  smiled  at  his  anxieties  over  her,  and 
declared  herself  not  ill.  But  one  by  one  of  the  rings 
worn  in  the  impersonation  of  the  dashing  Parisienne  had 


294  MERZE  : 

to  be  laid  aside  or  altered  by  the  jeweler  because  of  the 
sad  shrinking  of  slim  white  fingers.  And  the  large, 
shadowy  gray  eyes  had  hollows  about  them  that  told 
their  own  tale  of  growing  weakness. 

Guarda  had  waited  impatiently  for  their  return  that 
she  might  have  the  girl  with  her  if  it  would  add  any  to 
her  content.  He  felt  that  he  himself  was  not  enough. 
She  needed  some  object  to  care  for  who  would  be  de- 
pendent on  her,  something  to  rouse  her  to  an  idea  that 
she  was  needful.  He  could  only  pet  her  and  sympathize 
with  her  through  all  his  kindly  warm  heart,  but  that  had 
proved  a  narcotic  instead  of  an  elixir.  And  so,  instead 
of  grumbling  over  the  question  of  Crista,  he  had  at  last 
begun  to  look  forward  to  seeing  her  as  impatiently  as 
Merze  herself; 

And  now  this  letter,  with  its  childish  love,  the  love  that 
was  half  doubt,  had  been  hurled  by  the  fates  with  a 
force  that  crushed  out  all  her  fancies  of  the  ideal  sister- 
hood they  were  to  share. 

"  Ah,  this  terrible  love,  this  terrible  love!"  she  moaned, 
letting  the  letter  drop  from  her  nerveless  fingers. 

And  poor  old  Mephisto,  for  all  his  devotion  to  her, 
could  only  sit  silent,  knowing  that  love  had  indeed  proved 
itself  terrible  to  her. 

"  We  will  go  at  once!"  Her  words  were  a  half  appeal 
to  the  objection  she  feared. 

"  Now?  Ah,  Merze,  be  patient.  Haste  will  not  alter 
it.  You  are  not  able.  The  journey  here  has  exhausted 
you.  Let  me  go  and  bring  her  to  you.  That  is  best." 

"No,  no,"  she  protested,  hastily.  "That  I  could  not 
stand;  to  wait  here  counting  the  hours  until  you  would 
come  back?  No;  I  will  be  strong  enough.  If  you  will 
only  come  with  me." 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  295 

"I  should  not  think  of  having  you  go  alone,"  he 
answered,  simply. 

She  turned  to  him  swiftly  with  outstretched  hand.  "  My 
Mephisto,"  she  said,  with  tender  eyes,  "  I  should  never 
deem, love  terrible  while  I  have  you.  Do  not  think  me 
ungrateful.  I  never  am  that;  and  I  know,  know  always 
that  nothing  so  perfect,  so  unselfish  as  your  love  and 
friendship  will  ever  come  into  my  life." 

"  My  child,"  and  the  voice  was  low  and  tremulous  with 
the  pleasure  of  her  words.  He  said  no  more,  but  the 
old  eyes  held  in  them  a  depth  of  love  which  her  years 
of  youth  could  never  sound. 

The  sun  was  just  setting  over  the  mountains  when  a 
carriage  stopped  at  the  gate  of  the  pretty  Quaker  farm- 
house, and  Mrs.  Menturn,  who  was  on  the  porch,  stepped 
down  on  the  paved  walk  as  the  driver  spoke. 

"  Friend  Prudence,  I  have  brought  to  thee  some  kindred 
of  thy  young  friend." 

"  They  are  welcome,  Hiram,  and  I  thank  thee," 
answered  the  little  lady,  coming  forward  as  a  stooped, 
white-haired  gentleman  assisted  a  lady  in  black  to  alight. 

"You  are  friends  of  Crista?"  and  she  held  out  her 
hand,  thinking  as  she  did  so  that  the  lovely  lady  in  her 
sombre  draperies  looked  as  a  tired  queen  might  look. 

"Yes,"  answered  Merze,  clasping  the  delicate  little 
hand  warmly;  "  and  I  know  from  her  letters  that  you  are 
Mrs.  Menturn.  I  have  to  thank  you  much  for  her 
happy  life  with  you." 

"  The  child  has  been  a  blessing  to  us.  Give  thy  thanks 
to  God,  not  to  man,"  and  then  she  turned  to  Guarda; 
"and  thee?" 

"  He  is  also  a  friend,  though  unknown  to  her,"  and 
Merze  introduced  him,  adding:  "  I  have  not  been  well, 


29G  MERZE : 

and  feared  to  take  the  journey  alone,  and  I  could  not  wait 
longer  to  see  her." 

"Thee  will  prove  a  welcome  guest,  I  do  assure  thee." 

They  had  reached  the  porch,  and  as  she  opened  the 
door  into  the  room  where  Crista  and  Betha  were  sitting, 
there  was  a  glance  of  wonder  from  the  blue  eyes,  and 
the  next  instant  they  were  in  each  other's  arms — Crista 
laughing  and  crying  at  once  in  her  delight. 

Merze,  after  the  first  greeting,  felt  Guarda's  hand  on 
her  own.  "  Sit  down,"  he  said,  ever  on  the  watch  for  her 
comfort.  "You  are  exhausted  and  trembling.  This 
journey  has  been  too  much  for  you." 

She  did  so,  obediently,  feeling  that  he  was  right;  it 
had  tired  her  more  than  she  realized  until  after  the  goal 
was  reached. 

Clasping  Crista's  hand  in  hers,  she  sat  looking  ear- 
nestly in  the  blue  eyes  until  they  wavered  and  fell  beneath 
her  own. 

"  You  have  been  happy  here!" 

"Very,  very  happy,  sister,"  and  Guarda,  noting  her 
beauty,  her  childish  charm  of  manner,  did  not  wonder  so 
much  at  Merze's  fondness  for  her. 

"  Too  happy  to  leave  it  with  me?" 

The  girl  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  said:  "Wher- 
ever you  wish  me  to  be  I  shall  be  content,  knowing  that 
you  do  all  for  the  best,  and  I  should  like  never  to  be  sep- 
arated from  you." 

"Thy  answer  is  most  prudent,  Crista,  and  suits 
well  thy  years  and  loving  heart.  Heaven  bring 
blessings  to  thee,  and  aid  thee  to  judge  wisely  for  thy 
future." 

"  Be  it  so,"  echoed  Betha,  as  she  followed  Prue  from 
the  room,  knowing  that  there  would  be  much  to  say  that 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  297 

was  not  for  strange  ears.  Crista  touched  the  black  folds 
of  Merze's  dress  questioningly. 

"It  is  worn  because  of  Mr.  Lawrence,"  said  Merze; 
"  he  is  dead,  and  when  there  is  more  time  we  will  speak 
further  of  it;  there  are  many  things  to  talk  of,  but  not 
now.  I  wanted  to  return  to-night,  but  Mr.  Guarda 
thinks  I  must  remain  at  the  hotel  for  one  night's  rest 
before  going  back.  And  I  would  want  you  to  go  with 
me,  fora  short  time  at  least;  then  if  you  choose  you  can 
return.  Will  that  please  you?" 

"  Very  much,  my  dear,  dear  Mercy,"  answered  the  girl, 
earnestly.  She  had  been  looking  at  Merze  as  she  talked; 
finally  she  said,  turning  to  Guarda: 

"  Has,  has  she  been  very  ill?  The  longer  I  look  the 
more  plainly  I  see  the  change  in  her  face.  Ah,  my  sister, 
you  have  been  suffering  while  I  have  had  only  enjoy- 
ment, and  all  through  your  kindness.  You  should  have 
sent  for  me  and  let  me  nurse  and  take  care  of  you." 

"  I  have  had  the  best  of  care,"  answered  Merze,  look- 
ing kindly  at  Guarda.  Crista's  quick  eyes  noted  the  old 
man's  face  as  he  smiled  back.  She  rose  and  went  over 
to  him. 

"  I  was  so  glad  to  see  her  that  I  scarcely  spoke  to  you," 
she  said,  frankly.  "  But  I  see  you  love  each  other,  and 
that  makes  me  want  to  know  you  better.  Will  you  let 
me  thank  you  for  your  care  of  her?  She  is  the  dearest 
of  all  in  the  world  to  me,  and  since  I  can  be  of  no  use 
to  her  I  pray  that  the  saints  may  have  ever  in  their  keep- 
ing those  who  can,"  and  she  stooped,  kissing  with  rever- 
ence his  hand  that  lay  on  the  back  of  Merze's  chair. 

His  prejudice  faded  away  under  the  simple  earnestness 
of  her  manner.  He  held  her  hand  in  his  closely.  "  I 
hope  we  shall  know  each  other  better,  child.  And  how 


298  MERZE  : 

about  your  other  friend  whom  we  are  to  see?  You  are 
Surely  not  so  selfish  as  to  keep  him  out  of  sight." 

Her  face  flushed  warmly,  and  she  turned  to  Merze. 
'  Does  he  know?  Did  you  tell  him?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  and  he  will  be  your  friend,  I  feel  sure,  as 
well  as  mine.  But  are  we  to  hear  nothing  of  Mr. 
Mortimer?" 

"I  had  forgotten  in  the  gladness  of  your  coming,"  she 
answered  a  little  hesitatingly.  But  he  will  soon  be  here; 
he  has  gone  to  the  village  for  the  mail,  and  seldom  re- 
mains so  long.  Ah,  my  sister,  I  do  so  hope  you  will 
like  each  other." 

Even  as  she  spoke  they  heard  a  voice  saying:  "  Yes, 
my  mother,  a  letter  for  Crista.  Where  is  she?" 

The  girl  flew  to  the  door  to  open  it,  while  Merze  and 
Guarda  both  rose  to  their  feet  at  the  sound  of  that  voice. 
Her  face  was  white  as  death,  and  she  could  not  steady 
herself  enough  to  raise  her  eyes  at  first. 

Crista  held  his  hand  as  she  entered.  He  saw  a  thin, 
black-robed  woman  with  bent  head,  and  though  he  could 
not  see  the  face,  a  thrill  passed  over  him  at  sight  of  the 
form  that  looked  so  familiar.  Then  he  heard  Crista's 
voice  saying: 

"  Friend  Mortimer,  this  is  my  sister,  Mrs.  Lawrence. 
Mercy,  my  dear  sister,  this  is  my  friend  I  have  told  you 
of — Mr.  Drande." 

As  she  raised  her  face,  the  change  in  it  was  so  startling 
that  he  took  a  step  toward  her  with  outstretched  hands 
and  his  heart  on  his  lips  as  he  spoke  her  name,  "  Merze!" 

"  It  is— you" 

She  tried  to  steady  herself,  but  her  strength  was  gone, 
and  she  dropped  like  a  dead  thing  at  his  feet. 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  299 


CHAPTER  XL. 

Into  Crista's  room  he  carried  her,  where  she  lay  white 
and  still,  despite  the  efforts  of  the  women. 

"  I  told  thee  wisely,  Betha,  when  I  said  she  looked 
more  fit  for  a  bed  than  a  journey." 

"  That  thee  did,  Prue,  and  I  fear  me  it  is  a  bed  she 
will  keep  for  many  a  day." 

Crista  said  little,  only  helped  as  she  could  with  mute 
lips,  and  eyes  steadied  and  deepened  with  the  new  light 
that  had  come  to  them. 

Downstairs  the  old  man  sat  alone  in  the  lavender- 
scented  room,  where  the  firelight  and  the  twilight 
mingled  and  faded.  He  could  hear  the  murmur  of 
voices  and  softly-moving  feet  in  the  room  where  they 
laid  her,  and  above  those  sounds  came  to  his  ears  the 
echo  of  a  steady,  monotonous  walk  overhead,  and  he 
knew  it  was  Drande.  There  had  been  no  explanations. 
It  was  a  fatality  in  the  use  of  the  names  that  had  blinded 
them.  Crista,  writing  so  much  of  him,  had  never  once 
mentioned  any  name  but  Mortimer,  because  it  was  the 
only  name  she  had  heard  him  called.  She  had  written 
of  him  as  she  had  of  Betha,  always  by  his  given  name, 
and,  long  as  he  had  known  Drande,  he  had  never  heard 
him  say  what  his  second  initial  stood  for.  And  so  it  had 
all  happened  by  chance,  if  there  be  such  a  thing.  And 
in  the  deepening  dusk  Guarda  could  only  sit,  helpless 
to  her  now,  waiting  for  what  news  they  might  bring 


300  MERZE  : 

him.  The  steps  above  him  ceased,  and  a  little  later  he 
looked  up  as  the  door  was  pushed  open  and  Drande 
entered.  There  had  been  no  exchange  of  words  between 
them,  and  now  there  was  neither  greeting  nor  handclasp. 
The  younger  man  spoke  first: 

"  There  is  no  need  of  our  wasting  words  as  to  how  this 
terrible  mistake  has  been  made,"  he  said,  coldly;  "but 
I  will  leave  to-night  until  after  the  removal  of  —  Mrs. 
— of  your  friend.  Before  doing  so  I  want  to  ask  one 
question:  What  is  she  to  Crista?" 

"  A  very  noble  woman — a  very  loving,  unselfish 
friend." 

"  But  not  her  sister?" 

"  Not  by  blood — only  through  their  love  for  each 
other  and  a  whim  of  the  girl's  to  be  called  so." 

"  Thank  God  for  that,  at  least!"  breathed  Drande, 
with  earnestness.  The  thought  of  their  sisterhood  had 
been  a  horrible  one  to  him,  and  added  to  it  was  a  pas- 
sionate longing  for  the  still  face  upstairs  that  drew  all 
his  love,  even  while  it  repelled  him,  by  memories  of  that 
mysterious  crime,  and  the  fatal  silence  of  her  marriage. 
Guarda  heard  him  and  turned  sharply. 

"  And  why  thank  God?"  he  asked,  in  half  anger  at 
the  tone.  "  Is  it  through  the  shame  you  feel  for  the 
faithlessness  that  let  you  vow  to  her,  to  me,  your  love 
for  her  not  six  months  ago,  and  that  now  has  won  for- 
getfulness  through  the  soft  eyes  of  a  child?  You  should 
thank  God  also  if  death  comes  to  her  under  your  roof. 
In  no  other  way  will  rest  ever  reach  her." 

"  Not  while  conscience  is  left  to  her,"  added  the 
other. 

"  Bah!  you  are  a  fool."  And  Guarda  rose  impetu- 
ously. "Just  for  that  one  thing  which  she  kept  from 


THE   STORY    OF   AN    ACTRESS.  301 

you,  the  secret  of  the  marriage,  you  condemn  her;  and 
yet  you  loved  her!  Such  love  is  worthless,  worthless  as 
the  chaff  that  is  blown  unheeded  from  the  wheat.  But  I 
will  tell  you  of  that;  who  knows  but  it  may  help  her  to 
a  little  content?  You  set  yourself  in  judgment  on  her 
life,  knowing  nothing  of  her  wretchedness.  She  had 
been  his  wife — yes;  not  through  her  choice,  but  through 
some  supposed  duty  to  her  father.  Poor  child!  her 
faith  to  what  she  thought  her  duties  has  brought  to  her 
sad  troubles.  Well,  she  was  unhappy.  They  separated, 
and  he  insisted  on  an  absurd  promise  of  secrecy  from 
her.  She  gave  it  willingly,  earnestly.  She  wished  in 
every  way  to  make  amends  for  the  repugnance  she  felt 
at  their  relations.  I  could  see  it  all,  my  poor,  blind, 
generous  Merze!  When  she  found  you  cared  for  her, 
she  went  to  him  and  begged  him  to  give  back  her 
promise.  You  know  how  unlike  himself  he  was  toward  the 
last.  Well,  he  forbade  her  to  tell,  or  made  it  conditional 
— if  she  acknowledged  the  marriage,  he  would  claim  her 
as  his  wife.  That  thought  was  a  horror  she  could  not 
endure.  He  even  forbade  her  leaving  the  hotel  where 
he  was;  not  that  he  cared  for  her,  but  only  to  assert  his 
power  over  a  woman  whose  indifference  was  changing 
into  loathing,  and  who,  in  spite  of  it,  he  determined 
should  know  him  as  her  master.  She  kept  it  all  to  her- 
self, fearing  to  worry  me  with  her  troubles.  That  day 
when  you  left  us  in  her  room,  she  told  me  the  whole 
truth.  And  you — for  that  one  sad  enforced  silence — you 
left  her  at  her  greatest  need,  left  her  knowing  you  had 
her  love — the  love  you  had  asked  for.  I  do  not  wonder 
you  thank  God  she  is  not  akin  to  the  child  you  have 
asked  as  a  bride.  Shame  should  prompt  you  to  that 
gratitude " 


302  MERZE  : 

"Stop!"  said  Dranae,  sternly,  "I  may  deserve  that  in 
part,  not  wholly.  It  is  not  that  silence  alone  which  took 
me  from  her;  it  is  the  silence  of  yours  and  hers  con- 
cerning that  crime.  You  know  what  I  mean." 

"  As  to  the  identity  of  the  woman?" 

"  As  to  the  dagger  I  saw  lying  in  her  room  that  morn- 
ing, and  which  I  saw  next  struck  through  the  heart  of 
her  husband — her  husband  whom  she  hated,  dreaded, 
feared,  and  who  was  killed  that  night  while  he 
slept." 

"  Great  heaven!"  The  words  fell  slowly  from 
Guarda's  lips  as  he  comprehended  Drande's  meaning. 
"  You  could  accuse  her  of  such  a  crime,  and  yet  had 
loved  her?" 

"  She  knew  what  my  thoughts  were;  she  knew  I  was 
justified  in  them,  and  made  no  sign  of  denial,"  answered 
Drande.  With  all  his  soul  he  wanted  to  believe  in  her, 
but  in  no  way  he  looked  could  he  see  any  hope  to  which 
he  might  cling. 

"  She  knew  you  thought  that  of  her?  Then  with  all 
my  knowledge  of  her  she  is  more  noble  than  I  dreamed. 
She  thought  his  death  a  terrible  retribution  on  her  for 
the  wish  of  it  she  had  fostered.  If  she  knew  your  accusa- 
tion she  has  accepted  it  in  the  same  light.  The  thing 
has  become  a  monomania,  and  that  is  what  has  been 
killing  her  for  weeks,  and  she  would  have  been  silent  to 
the  last.  My  poor  Merze,  my  poor  Merze!"  There  was 
no  mistaking  the  old  man's  earnestness  and  grief.  He 
sat  covering  his  face  with  his  hands  as  the  force  of  all 
she  had  endured  in  silence  came  to  him.  The  man 
standing  by  the  mantel  felt  a  great  throb  of  hope  as  he 
looked  at  him. 

"  She   is  innocent?"     His  voice  trembled  as   he  asked 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  303 

the  question.  Ah!  if  he  only  dared  have  once  more  his 
faith  in  her. 

"Yes;1  and  the  old  face  in  the  flickering  firelight 
seemed  ennobled  by  the  strength  of  his  faith  and  love, 
"yes;  and  as  much  above  your  doubts  as  the  stars  that 
are  shining  high  above  us." 

"  Thank  heaven  and  you!"  and  involuntarily  his  hand 
was  outstretched,  and  in  silence  the  old  man  clasped  it. 
The  deep,  suppressed  joy  in  his  voice  and  the  close  clasp 
of  the  hand  that  trembled,  told  in  part  what  torture  that 
doubt  had  been.  For  a  little  while  neither  spoke;  the 
heart  of  each  was  too  full  for  words,  and  the  asser- 
tion of  her  innocence  had  let  loose  a  flood  of  hope,  love, 
and  remorse  that  drowned  for  a  time  all  memories  of 
aught  but  her. 

"  Don't  think  too  contemptibly  of  me  in  this  matter, 
Guarda,"  he  said  at  last.  "  I  had  more  reason  for  doubts 
than  you  are  aware  of;  she  will  tell  you  so  herself.  She 
could  have  saved  us  both  much  suffering  if  she  had  but 
made  one  sign,  spoken  one  word  that  day  of  the  inquest;  a 
look  from  her  eyes  would  have  been  enough.  But  she 
gave  nothing  but  a  mute  assent  to  the  justice  of  my  sus- 
picion. It  was  her  pride,  I  suppose,  that  forbade  her 
attempting  any  removal  of  my  doubts." 

"  No;  it  was  something  more  noble  than  pride,"  said 
Guarda,  earnestly.  "  A  something  that  is  the  outgrowth 
of  a  strange  nature  and  deep  humility.  It  was  the  mis- 
taken idea  of  a  justice  that  was  meted  out  as  her  portion. 
An  expiation  in  silence  and  an  endeavor  to  atone  for  the 
wrongs  that  have  magnified  under  a  morbid,  self-accusing 
spirit.  But  it  shall  go  no  farther;  whether  it  please  her 
or  not,  there  shall  be  no  more  secrecy.  She  has  borne 
enough  for  that  girl." 


304  MERZE  : 

"  What  girl?" 

"Crista.  It  was  for  her  sake  that  she  would  not 
allow  me  to  make  known  our  theory  of  the  murder; 
but  I  have  it  all,  proofs,  everything  as  close  as  circum- 
stantial evidence  can  come.  And  they  shall  be  given  to 
the  authorities  at  once.  For  no  one's  sake  shall  she 
suffer  doubt  or  suspicion  of  that  sort." 

"  For  Cnsta's  sake?  I  don't  understand,"  said  Drande 
in  a  perplexed  way. 

"  Don't  you?  Everyone  would  but  for  the  faith  with 
which  Merze  has  kept  her  trust.  The  woman  who  com- 
mitted the  crime  was  the  one  known  in  the  house  as  his 
wife  years  ago,  the  one  whom  he  reported  dead  for  so 
long  that  none  thought  of  starting  on  that  scent.  That 
woman  was  Crista's  mother!" 

There  was  a  sound  of  startled  horror  from  Drande, 
and  another  that  sounded  like  a  moan  through  the  door 
he  had  left  ajar  unnoticed  in  the  darkness;  but  neither 
of  the  men  heard  it.  Guarda  and  he  sat  there  long  in 
the  firelight,  while  he  listened  to  the  story  of  their  theory, 
and  the  evidence  gained.  And  through  all  concerning 
Lawrence  and  Crista,  the  thing  that  seemed  uppermost 
was  the  endurance,  the  noble  character,  of  the  woman  he 
had  judged  and  condemned. 

"You  are  right,  Guarda,"  he  said,  staring  into  the 
mass  of  coals  with  moody,  remorseful  eyes.  "  I  am  un- 
worthy, I  think  any  man  would  be  that.  If  I  could 
only  give  the  rest  of  my  years  in  atonement." 

"  You  cared  so  much?" 

"It  is  not  a  thing  I  can  speak  of,  or  find  words  for, 
even  to  you,  old  friend.  Through  all  my  doubt  and  con- 
demnation she  was,  she  always  will  be,  the  one  woman  in 
life  to  me." 


THE   STORY    OF   AN    ACTRESb.  305 

"  Yet,  there  is  the  child  Crista?" 

"Yes;  God  help  us  both!" 

All  through  the  length  of  the  night  Crista  sat  beside 
the  sleeping  form  so  dearly  loved.  The  light  was  turned 
low,  but  not  too  low  for  her  to  distinguish  the  tired,  pale 
face  on  the  bed,  or  the  eyes  in  the  picture  above  that 
had  been  so  dear  to  her.  Her  eyes  wandered  from  one 
to  the  other  as  she  thought  wistfully: 

"  I  prayed  for  some  way  to  show  my  gratitude;  it 
is  a  heavier  debt  than  I  dreamed  of,  but  it  has  come  at 
last." 

And  she  dropped  on  her  knees  by  the  window;  the 
stars  glittering  above  shone  on  the  fair  young  face,  as  it 
pressed  cold  lips  to  the  cold  crucifix  and  murmured 
vaguely:  "Help  me — help  me — help  me!" 

The  stars  glittered  as  if  in  mockery.  The  moon  co- 
quetted with  the  clouds.  A  very  woman  in  the  silver 
tints  she  lent  to  each  as  they  passed,  yet  keeping  ever 
her  wealth  of  witchery  to  lavish  on  the  next.  They  see  so 
many  woes,  these  eyes  of  the  night;  and  their  tears  have 
been  burned  up  ages  ago;  they  have  none  left  for  human- 
ity; they  can  only  smile  now,  glitteringly,  to  hide  the  hol- 
lowness  within  themselves.  And  the  ivory  Christ,  impres- 
sive as  the  heavens,  cold  as  it  ever  is,  lay  in  her  hands, 
wet  with  her  tears,  and  senseless  as  the  dead  beast  from 
whose  tusk  it  was  carved.  But  in  the  white  light  of  her 
innocence  Crista  had  faith. 


20 


COG  MERZE 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

God  be  with  you 

I  bear  you  company  no  more.     Behold 
The  dawn  with  white  ray  glimmering  through  the  mist. 

— Dante. 

The  dusk  of  early  morning  lay  over  the  fields  as  the 
tempestuous  hair  was  tossed  back  from  wide,  gray  eyes, 
and  Merze  looked  up  into  the  young  face  above  her. 

u  My  dear  Crista,"  she  smiled,  reaching  out  her  white 
hands  and  trying  to  rise.  But  the  girl  gently  pressed  her 
back  to  the  pillow. 

"Not  yet,"  she  said,  chidingly;  "not  until  they  bring 
you  some  toast  and  some  tea;  they  will  be  up  ere  long." 

"  And  you,  dear!  you  are  dressed  for  walking.  Have 
you  slept  none?" 

"  No;  but  that  does  not  matter.  A  walk  down  the  lane 
before  breakfast  will  drive  away  my  dullness.  I  feared 
you  might  wake  and  want  me.  But  friend  Prue's  herb 
tea  did  its  work  well;  you  slept  soundly,  and  are  much 
better." 

"So  much;  and  now " 

Her  eyes,  in  wandering  about  the  room,  fell  on  the 
pictured  face  smiling  down  on  her.  Like  a  flash  came 
back  memories  of  the  night  before — memories  the  nar- 
cotic had  stilled;  and  she  could  only  close  her  eyes  and 
lie  speechless. 

Crista  sat  beside  her,  and  softly  drew  down  her  hands 
and  kissed  the  white  lids. 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  307 

"  My  sister,  my  dear  Mercy,"  she  said,  low  and 
steadily,  "  I  want  you  to  be  very  happy  here,  and  you 
must  not  begin  by  shunning  his  eyes.  They  are  kind, 
loving  eyes  to  all.  He  will  come  soon  to  speak  with 
you,  to  clear  away  doubts  which  have  lasted  too  long. 
And  when  he  comes  be  kind  to  him,  dear,  for  the  sake 
of  your  happiness.  He  also  has  suffered  much." 

"Crista,  Crista!  what  are  you  saying?  How  oddly 
you  speak!"  and  her  hands  were  trembling  with  the  half 
hopes  which  the  words  brought.  "  You  speak  of  happi- 
ness to  me!  Mine  will  only  come  through  your  com- 
panionship, when  we  go  away  together  and  live  contented 

until — until "  Her  lips  refused  to  say,  "  until  your 

marriage." 

"  Yes,  yes!"^Crista  assented,  tremulously.  "  But  you 
are  not  strong  enough  to  go  yet;  you  will  be  here  for 
many  days.  And  I  hope  you  will  learn  to  love  the 

people;  they  are  so  good,  so  kind.  And and  if  any 

of  them  try  to  help  you  to  happiness,  take  it,  dear,  with 
grateful  hands.  I  have  seen  so  little  of  the  world,  but 
enough  to  show  me  it  is  a  rare  gift." 

"  Yes,  Crista;  but  you?" 

"  I  am  going  for  a  walk,  if  you  don't  mind  being  alone 
for  awhile;  the  air  will  do  me  good.  And  look,  dear!" 
she  added,  drawing  back  the  curtain,  "  you  can  lie  here 
and  watch  the  sun  rising  away  there  in  the  east.  See! 
its  light  already  begins  a  halo  around  those  far  mount- 
ains. It  is  a  new  day,  sister,  creeping  closer  and 
brighter  with  every  moment.  Thank  God!  your  night 
is  past." 

And  then  she  stooped  and  kissed  many  times  the 
wondering  face,  and,  glancing  once  more  up  into  the 
eyes  of  the  picture,  she  passed  out  and  down  the  stairs. 


308  MERZE  : 

Although  the  morning  star  was  still  shining,  she  saw 
that  she  was  not  the  only  wakeful  one.  Guarda's  white 
head  was  visible  across  the  hedge  of  the  garden. 

"  I  could  not  sleep,"  he  explained.  "  The  quiet  of 
peaceful  life  would  be  oppressive  to  me  now.  I  have 
lived  too  long  amid  the  rattle  of  carts  over  cobble-stones. 
But  you,  my  dear — young  things  like  you — should  sleep 
better.' 

"  I  watched  all  night,  lest  she  should  waken  and  want 
me,"  she  answered,  simply.  "  But  now  she  is  better, 
much  brighter,  and  will  soon  be  strong  again — with 
happiness  to  help  her." 

"Happiness?"  and  the  old  man  looked  at  her  nar- 
rowly. 

"  Yes,  surely;  why  not?  I  am  glad  you  are  here.  I 
can  see  how  dearly  you  love  her,  and — "  she  hesitated 
under  his  eyes,  that  were  looking  at  her  so — "  and  last 
night  I  heard  you  say  those  proofs  should  be  given  to 
the  world.  Pray,  do  not  allow  her  to  dissuade  you  be- 
cause of  me.  I  shall  have  no  name  for  disgrace  to  touch. 
I  want  the  truth  known  now." 

"You  know  that?"  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder,  pityingly. 

"  I  know  all.  I  did  not  mean  to  listen.  The  door 
was  ajar  in  the  darkness.  But  I  am  glad  now  it  was  so; 
I  should  never  have  known  otherwise.  Do  not  tell  them; 
it  would  only  be  a  pain  to  both.  You  will  keep  this  one 
secret  for  me,  and  do  as  I  ask  about  those  proofs?  And 
now,  good-by.  I  could  not  say  so  to  them.  They  may 
think  me  ungrateful,  but  you  will  know  it  is  not  so. 
They  will  have  my  love,  my  prayers,  my  gratitude  always; 
but  I  can  not  meet  them  now.  Perhaps  in  the  future  I 
shall,  if  they  will  come — when  all  this  is  a  thing  of  the 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ACTRESS.  309 

past.  God  bless  you  always.  I  go  back  to  the  convent; 
good-by!" 

And  with  a  clasp  of  hands,  and  glimmer  of  tears  in 
her  eyes,  she  turned  away  before  he  could  speak,  and 
walked  swiftly  down  the  lane  under  drooping  branches, 
through  which  the  sky  could  be  seen  tinged  with  a  faint 
flush.  Not  once  did  she  turn  her  face  toward  the  peace- 
ful nest  where  all  her  love,  all  her  happiness,  lay. 

And  on  the  white  bosom  lay  the  ivory  Christ,  over 
which  her  hands  were  clasped  so  closely  that  it  bruised 
the  fair  flesh.  It  was  all  she  had  left  to  her.  What  the 
world  had  given  it  had  demanded  again.  And  with  tired 
feet  she  wandered  back  as  a  sheep  will  to  the  fold, 
after  seeing  the  depth  of  chasms  down  which  others  have 
dropped  into  darkness. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

Once  we  had  one  heart,  one  hope, 

And  we  parted — how?  and  why? 
Promise,  now,  we  will  not  part — 
You  and  I. 

A  little  letter  left  at  Drande's  door,  a  letter  addressed 
to  himself  and  Merze,  was  read  by  them  with  tearful 
eyes  and  pitiful  hearts.  She  was  so  dear  to  them  both, 
and  her  decision  was  irrevocable. 

"You  called  me  Elaine,  sometimes,  in  jest,  Friend 
Mortimer.  I  think  my  love  for  you  was  what  the  poet 
made  hers.  I  did  not  think  to  be  your  wife.  I  know 
you  are  fond  of  me;  but  with  neither  of  us  is  it  the  fond- 
ness which  should  lead  to  marriage.  It  is  a  mistake  we 
could  not  explain  face  to  face.  So  I  can  only  go  away. 


310  MERZE  : 

I  leave  the  letter  from  Sister  Paul;  you  will  see  she  is  to 
pass  through  the  village  this  morning.  I  am  going  to 
meet  her,  and  go  back,  never  to  leave  again.  Do  not 
grieve,  and  do  not  let  my  dear  Mercy.  Go  to  her  with 
this,  read  it  together,  and  tell  her  the  things  I  know  you 
long  to  tell  her.  I  love  you  both.  I  have  asked  her  to 
be  kind  and  listen  to  you.  Make  her  life  happy,  and  do 
not  let  your  dear  mother  think  me  ungrateful.  Do  this 
for  me,  and  do  not  let  any  regrets  or  thoughts  of  me 
keep  you  silent  when  you  read  this.  Your  names  will 
always  be  together  in  my  prayers.  May  we  meet  at  the 
feet  of  God. 

"CRISTA." 

There  was  silence  between  them  after  the  reading  of 
the  letter.  It  was  as  if  a  tomb  had  closed  above  her, 
and  this,  her  last  will,  lay  in  their  hands.  Drande  spoke 
first,  and  his  voice  was  far  from  steady. 

"  Merze  " — how  dear  the  name  sounded  on  his  lips! 
— "  the  child  has  left  me  her  legacy.  It  scarcely  seems 
fitting  to  speak  now  of  love  or  happiness;  but  I  can  not 
leave  you  until  I  know  what  our  lives  are  to  be  to  each 
other.  You  have  been  first  in  my  thoughts  through  all; 
and  now  I  ask,  in  all  love,  in  all  reverence,  grant  me 
Crista's  gift,  let  me  try  to  make  amends  for  the  past — 
be  my  wife." 

Surely  it  was  a  strange  wooing  after  the  tempests  of 
passion  their  eyes  had  seen  in  each  other.  Fate  had 
swung  them  off  into  this  harbor,  where  peace  reigned, 
where  all  tumultuous  waves  were  lulled  to  rest,  and  their 
love  in  its  very  quietness  was  greater  than  ever  before. 

Was  it  because  they  realized  the  greatness  of  the 
sacrifice  that  had  been  made  to  the  gods  for  it?  Some- 
thing like  that  passed  through  Merze's  mind. 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  311 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  am  building  happiness  on  that  child's 
heart,"  she  said,  tremulously,  as  she  gave  him  her  hand. 

That  was  all.  There  was  no  need  for  words  between 
them  of  that  past,  with  its  bitterness  and  its  mistakes. 
They  were  together;  that  was  enough.  And  truly, 
"  Love  sees  as  God  sees,  and  with  infinite  wisdom  has 
infinite  pardon." 

To  Guarda  it  was  a  joy,  because  of  Merze.  She  was 
first  in  all  things.  But  many  days  went  by  ere  he  could 
forget  the  young  face  in  the  dawn  with  the  steadiness  of 
despair  in  her  eyes.  Her  wishes  were  respected  by  him, 
and  the  proofs  were  given  to  the  world,  and  cleared 
away  the  mystery  of  the  crime.  But  that  conversation, 
with  the  morning  star  shining  overhead,  was  one  never 
spoken  of,  even  to  Merze. 

"  She  was  a  great  blessing,  a  child  of  light,"  said  Friend 
Prue,  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "But  it  is  their  church 
that  has  drawn  her  from  us;  it  has  great  power." 

And  Guarda,  who  heard,  answered:  "If  it  has  power 
to  instill  such  purity  of  life,  such  nobility  of  soul,  into 
the  hearts  of  its  people,  God  prosper  it.  Not  fitted  for 
our  world?  No,  she  was  as  much  out  of  place  in  it  as 
an  archangel  walking  among  us  in  the  livery  of  heaven. 
I  was  unjust  to  her  once,  but  she  has  conquered.  They 
are  two  noble  hearts;  one  strong  through  her  faith  and 
religion,  and  the  other  despite  the  lack  of  it.  Which  is 
greater?  Ah,  who  can  tell!  There  is  a  warning  in  that 
old  Italian  poet's  vision  which  repeats  itself  in  my  mind: 

Be  wary  how  ye  judge ! 
For  we  who  see  our  Maker  know  not  yet 
The  number  of  the  chosen. 


MERZE : 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

Easter  morning  wakened  warm  from  the  kiss  of  south 
winds,  sweet  with  the  fragrance  of  first  blossoms,  and 
shining  softly  as  the  brightest  jewel  in  the  circle  of 
sacred  days. 

Through  that  glad  radiance  fell  the  words  that  made 
Merze  again  a  wife,  and  gave  her  into  the  shelter  of  a 
home  where  rest  for  the  soul  was  not  a  figure  of  speech, 
but  a  reality  that  grew  on  her  day  by  day  until  the  one 
lack  of  her  life  was  filled  at  last. 

"  Sanctuary?  yes,"  she  said,  that  fair  morning,  looking 
into  her  husband's  eyes;  "  it  will  always  be  that  to  me 
here — sacred." 

"And  your  art,  the  stage?"  he  smiled,  question ingly. 

"  Is  none  the  less  so,  dear,"  she  answered.  "  Would 
you  want  the  artist  lost  in  the  woman?" 

"No,  Merze,  that  folly  is  past,"  and  he  smoothed 
back  the  waves  of  bronze  hair  that  clustered  around  the 
face,  lovelier  than  ever  with  returned  health  and  content 
"  No;  your  work  is  not  the  empty  tinkle  of  cymbals.  I 
prefer  what  I  possess — artist  and  woman  merged  in  one." 

"  And  which  you,  not  knowing  your  power,  helped  to 
mold  when  as  a  child  you  were  my  divinity,  my  oracle 
of  a  day,"  and  then  she  smiled,  seeing  the  white  hair  of 
Guarda  through  the  open  window.  "So  you  grant 
admission  to  two  rivals,  my  work  and  Massa  Mark?" 

"Always  Massa  Mark,"  he  assented.  "Who  could 
imagine  one  of  you  without  the  other?  Sometimes  I  am 


THE   STORY    OF    AN    ACTRESS.  313 

tempted  to  jealousy;  your  devotion  is  palpable  to  the 
world." 

"  And  it  never  will  be  less,"  she  answered,  taking  the 
old  man's  hand  as  he  came  out  and  stood  beside  them 
on  the  long  white  porch.  "  Our  bond  is  a  strong  one, 
is  it  not, '  Mephisto '?  forged  long  ago  through  a  romance 
of  ours — one  whose  leaves  are  bound  close  by  the  hair 
of  a  dear,  dead  woman — a  romance  of  the  past." 

"  All  romances  are  of  the  past  or  the  future,"  said 
Guarda.  "  Distance  must  mellow  the  tints  as  age  does 
that  of  a  painting.  When  seen  in  the  present,  the  thread 
of  bitterness  or  sorrow  is  all  our  eyes  perceive;  and  in 
romances  there  is  always  sorrow  for  someone." 

And  his  eyes  wandered  down  the  lane  where  he  had 
seen  the  young  girl's  form  lose  itself  in  the  dusk  of 
dawn  under  the  morning  star.  Merze  clasped  his  hand 
closer.  Drande  in  silence  turned  into  the  house. 

"  Massa  Mark,"  she  said,  her  voice  lowered  a  little  by 
the  earnestness  of  his  words,  "  Massa  Mark,  I  wonder 
sometimes  if  you  do  not  condemn  in  part  this  happiness 
that  was  purchased  so  dearly.  Do  not  think  me  care- 
less of  her,  at  the  last.  If  I  could  have  kept  her  or 
brought  her  back,  all  our  lives  would  have  been  differ- 
ent." 

"I  know  that,  Merze,  and  she  knows  it.  Have  no 
regrets.  Life  is  too  short  for  them,  and  it  is  best  as  it 
is,  for  all  the  pity  of  it.  She  is  a  young  saint,  as  you 
said  long  ago.  The  only  bridal  veil  for  such  is  the  one 
she  has  taken.  Men  can  not  kiss  the  lips  of  madonnas, 
my  dear." 

THE  END. 


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